


Some distant sanctuary

by Pezzythecat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, I just want someone to give these two disaster men a hug, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, angst that turns in to fluff, how about them good cows?, i felt left out so wrote a scotland fic, im at that point in the season break, no beta we die like archive assistants, post 159, the era of the good cows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pezzythecat/pseuds/Pezzythecat
Summary: The voice now had sensation attached to it, a burning that loitered on the skin and set fire where it touched, his vision swam, words that felt distant to even his own ears fell from his mouth, a statement of sorts, feeding a god that had not quite finished with this shell of a man that now weighed heavy with the burden of more than one.Did someone say something about good cows?Again another character study that got out of hand and here I am with another multi-part bag of feels...I promise there is fluff, it just takes a bit to get to it, cause my pore martin is a hot mess right now...
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 24
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

It hurt.

To be seen, after so long hiding away from the world, it stung at his skin in patches of warmth that felt almost alien to him after forced isolation. 

There had been nothing. And that nothing had been almost euphoric. 

To feel nothing. 

To be nothing.

To die would be an adventure.

To be cast off from all the pain that felt like it had been his only catalyst for such a long time. The fog had welcomed him like an old friend, cool to the touch as it wrapped him in its numbing grip. 

Peter was right. It was easier to be alone. He didn't want to end the extinction he didn't want to stop the beholding he wanted nothing. Not here in the void of nothingness that held him closer than any other had before.

He wanted nothing more than to embrace the empty to bury the last part of himself into the grips of the forsaken.

It was worth it for Jon, he would succeed where he had failed. It would all be worth it if he was safe. 

But…

And there was always a  _ but _ .

A voice had spoken, soft like a prayer on the wind, calling to him… edging past the hold of the forsaken. His name. 

Was it his name? It sounded like a name, but, what is a name?

Nothing but a handle for a thing that never really existed, the things we love, “ _ the people we love don't exist” _ … he heard the words on the air like a memory in a future that had never happened. 

Did he have a name? 

Was he even a person?

Did he exist if nobody saw him for days on end, weeks at a time? How long had he wandered in the fog? If he was nothing, could he have a name? 

He thought of Helen, of Michael… they had names but were they not everything? If nothing could be everything, would it have a name?

Would he have a name? If he never existed, would he need one? 

He thought of the Lukas family.

They had names. But if nobody spoke them did they exist?

He thought of Keay's, Mary and then of Gerry, the way he had cast off his name… was it easier to be nothing? Names belonged to people, not things or things that used to be something, but now were nothing...nobody important.

The sound broke through the soft background hiss of the waves. A name said in reverence. A whisper on the wind, a tug on a tiny thread of a heart that refused to give up…

The eye. The beholding, it was here in this place of nothing. It wanted back its own. It refused to let him slip away, it burned in his chest, aching. 

A name.

Martin.

It was _ his _ name.

He had a name, but it had never been spoken like this, this name didn't belong to him, this name belonged to someone else. The idea of someone else. 

He needed to tell that to the owner of the softly spoken sound. He loved that voice once, some time before nothing was everything and the world no longer hurt. The voice spoke to him in the darkness, its sharpness blunted now, wrapped in tones that offered protection and something new. 

No not new, something that had always been part of it, mixed in with the despair and the pain and the fear.

The fear was all he could hear it echoed louder than a scream in the silence. 

The voice spoke again. The Beholding pushing against the fog of the Forsaken, the fear that wrapped around the voice calling him back to it, the Beholding wanted its own, the Forsaken could not have it.

“Martin” 

The voice now had sensation attached to it, a burning that loitered on the skin and set fire where it touched, his vision swam, words that felt distant to even his own ears fell from his mouth, a statement of sorts, feeding a god that had not quite finished with this shell of a man that now weighed heavy with the burden of more than one. 

He couldn’t feel Peter anymore, he was gone. Space where he should not be filled with emptiness. A void filled with nothing.

He was gone. 

But Martin, yes Martin, that was his name, he remembered now, his name was Martin.. Martin Blackwood, he Knew that now. The voice had told him. The voice that now had a presence real and solid and wrapping around him. 

Eyes.

Two eyes, in the nothing that was everything. Eyes, and a face to go with it, a face he knew.

“-what do you see?” 

‘ _ What did he see?’  _ He saw pain, he saw fear, a million tiny actions pressing together and swirling in ways that he couldn’t comprehend. He felt the fear, the want and the loss, a pain unclear if it came from inside himself or from within the man who stood in front of him now, scared and laid bare for only him to see… and now he saw, he watched and he knew. 

Jon, it was Jon. His Jon. He saw the pain and the loss and fear and love, he understood why the void faded in the background as the man pulled him towards him.

“I see you, Jon.”

  
  
  
  


It took a long time for the fog to clear. Even when the haze of the forsaken no longer clung to them with its tendrils of despair, it hung ever-present on him like a shadow dispersed by numerous sources of light. Always present but not necessarily visible. His mind and body felt out of sync as if it were being controlled by something outside his comprehension. Following the sensation of heat in his left hand he glanced down to where fingers wrapped around his own, the figure his mind registered as Jon tugged him onwards. Jon had him, he could feel the way his palms pressed against his grounding him, fighting against the constant drag of the fog that wanted nothing more than to pull him back into its grasp. As the soft sand of the forsaken turned to solid brick underfoot, so did the reality of the current situation, Elias, Jonah, Peter… the Panopticon… Jon. 

He froze, unable to force his feet to move from the spot as the cold iron bars and dark gloom of the abandoned Millbank prison swam in and out of his vision.

Jon had saved him from the Forsaken. 

Jon had killed Peter.

Martin had not killed Jonah.

He did not have a plan. To end his life at the hand of the forsaken had been the end game. But now? The air seemed heavy in his lungs, the world seemed to spin, the ground coming up to meet him. The blissful nothing came back to claim him.

  
  
  


“Oh, Archivist, The one Alone is not alone, so he can not be the one Alone, do you see?” The voice was on the edge of his waking mind, it came in spikes and fractals as his brain tried to bring itself back to the land of the living, or not living depending on the angle. 

One hand held something warm, the other something cold. The warmth had a heartbeat, the cold felt metallic and hummed a beat all of its own. Both called him.

“Helen now is not the time.”

“It’s never the time, not here anyway, you should know that by now Archivist. Now is not the time because time is never now.” 

He felt arms that were impossible wrap around him and lift him, the warmth in his hand slid away from his grip he wanted to chase it, but his body felt as if it were miles away from him now.

“Don’t worry, he won’t go anywhere, the Forsaken is not stupid enough to venture into my hallways, present company an exception, Micheal was fond of your little assistants, something like that lingers in a place like this.” 

Soft footsteps echoed in improbable ways.

Somewhere in the echo of his mind, Martin felt the air change as an impossible door opened and the familiar smell of the archives drifted into his conscience, the last thing he remembered before the world went blank again was the heat returning to his hand and the soft familiar smell of the break room couch under his head.

  
  


“-somewhere safe” 

“Where would we go?”

“As far as possible, the longer you stay here, the worse it will be.” Martin knew that voice, familiar in its authority, it clawed at his mind. The forsaken shifted letting him process the information.

“-sira?” his voice croaked, the warmth in his hand tightened its grip. 

“Martin?” That was Jon’s voice. It was close, slowly Martins mind pieced together the information, his fingers pressed up against the warmth. Jon was holding his hand, Jon had followed him into the lonely and dragged him out. 

“Wa’s ..appening?” his voice felt feeble to his own ears, he shifted to try and sit up blinking back against the light cast down from the high window of the breakroom. How long had he been out? What had happened? His eyes glanced around the room trying to work out sight and shapes, they were all bright, sharp and harsh after the depths of the forsaken.

He could make out the shape of Basira stood positioned between the sofa and the space that had once held a door, her eyes constantly darting to the destroyed wooden panels and her head craning towards every unfamiliar sound.

“A lot.” She sighed her eyes flicking down to her phone. “We need to move, it’s only a matter of time before this becomes a section thirty-one and the fewer people that are involved the better.”

“What’s the plan,” Jon’s voice was close to Martin’s head he craned to see him now, out of focus still but solid and real. His eyes darted constantly from Martin to Basira, he looked more awake that Martin had seen him in years, a constant buzz of energy seemed to radiate from him. 

“I was hoping you might have come up with one by now.” Basira grunted moving forward and leaning down to look Martin in the eye “You back with us Blackwood?” 

Martin might not be best friends with Basira, but he knew her well enough to read the concerned look on her face as she studied him.

“I think so.” 

“Good, glad to have you back, but in the most affectionate way, get lost… both of you.” a noise in the hallway made her jump. Basira swung round ready for a fight “Both of you get out of here, go to one of your flats and lay low, I’ll take care of this.” she ordered stepping towards the commotion in the hall.

“What is it?” Jon’s voice was strained.

“You can’t just see?” Martin questioned, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet by the shorter man.

“No… I can’t see for… well... Because of you.” Martin didn’t have time to question him as a crashing noise signalled a door in the archives meeting an untimely demise.

He felt Jon pull him towards a door that had not been there a moment before.

“Where to Archivist?” 

“My flat, I know you know the way.”

  
  
  


\--------

The last time Martin had been trapped in the corridors of the distortion it had felt like weeks, Micheal enjoyed playing with him and Tim, toying with their realities in a way that Martin had found disorientating at the time. However, after following the path of the one alone, he now found the bright lights of Helen’s domain almost homely if not a little overpowering after the muted colours that had wrapped him deep in their hold. 

The twisting shape of Helen leads Jon onwards. Martin gripped his hand tight as he followed, if he dropped it for even a moment he would fall into the grasp of the lonely again in less than a blink, he was sure of it. Helen had been right, he couldn’t feel the forsaken while deep in the corridors of the spiral, but he didn’t trust the distortion, no matter how many times it had helped them in the past. He knew no matter what he would be eternally marked by the loneliness, it was inevitable, few came back from its grasps, he felt different somehow, changed but from what and how he couldn’t explain. Helen turned to look at them as they reached the red door at the end of the corridor. “This is you, Archivist. I can’t protect you outside my corridors, but the lonely should keep you hidden until your detective friend can find you somewhere to hide.”

Jon nodded once at his side reaching out and putting a hand on the door. “ Thank you, Helen,”

“If you need me, just Knock. I’m rather fond of you little Archivist,” Helen’s eyes spun towards Martin now, their eyes almost looking through Martin not quite focused. She nodded once in recognition before disappearing into her impossible corridors. 

Martin watched until she was gone before letting Jon lead him through the door.

  
  
  


Jon’s flat was not what Martin had expected, yet it was exactly how he imagined Jon when he thought of him as a whole. Every available space was covered with things. Bookshelves overflowed with dog eared books. Manilla folders scattered the sofa and the coffee table, above the tiny electric fire on a shelf sat a collection of photos and what looked like Jon’s graduation certificate, all framed in matching monochrome frames. The sofa was a faded suede and nestled up to a small dining room table that was barely big enough for one, maybe two at a push, the mix and match chairs had seen better days and one corner was held up with what looked like a wedge of takeaway menus. The room beyond expanded from carpet to lino, signalling the beginning of the area that was supposed to house the kitchen. The one-room seemed to be stuck in time, halfway between unpacking and moved in. He wondered how long Jon had been living out of the packing boxes that piled up on the kitchen counters, probably longer than was good for him. Martin tried not to think back to his barren bedsit and the depressing lack of unpacking he had done himself, a life condensed into seven brown boxes and two black bags, even the furniture didn’t belong to him having come as part of the rental agreement. No wonder Lukas had found him such easy prey.

Jon stepped towards the sofa, finally dropping Martin’s hand for the first time since Helen had carried him through the tunnels. He fussed over the folders, stacking them and piling them in hazardous looking positions on top of the boxes that flanked the room.

“I… I’m sorry about the mess,” Jon said stuttering to a halt when the largest of the piles collapsed to the floor, both sets of eyes watched as the paper hit the generic beige carpet that decked out every rented flat that ever existed, including Martin’s own. It all seemed too much for Jon at that point. He sunk to his knees trying to scoop all the remnants of his pile into something that resembled organisation, his head hung low face hidden by the blanket of his own hair. His shoulders shook. 

Somewhere in his mind, Martin registered that Jon was crying, but it was as if he were watching it all through a haze. He wanted to reach out and comfort him but his body wouldn’t respond to his own reasoning, the empty nothingness refused to let him move. The lonely wrapped out its tendrils towards Jon, Martin could feel it crawling towards him like creeping death. He could taste the lonely, it came off Jon in waves, it was tinged with the bitter taste of the beholding, but it still wasn’t enough to make him move no matter how much it called to him. In his hand the cold vibrated His fingers tightening the grip around the sensation, he hadn’t even registered up until this point, the warmth of Jon’s hand in his own had overpowered every other thought and feeling. 

His right hand uncurled, in it, he held the unmistakable bosons whistle that until recently had hung around the neck of Peter Lukas. He dropped it as if it suddenly burned white-hot in his palm. It dropped and rolled across the floor, stopping only when it hit the side of Jon’s leg. He still knelt staring at the scattered statements and destroyed piles of research. One scarred hand reached out and wrapped slender fingers around the faded brass and silver whistle. 

“Martin?” the whisper broke the spell that he seemed to be under, that, or the fact that he had let go of something so deeply wrapped up in the Forsaken. He stumbled forward, the world seemed to come back in a rush, he could smell the lingering scent of cigarettes in the air, feel the dampness that still hung to his clothes, feel the aches that seemed to pulsate through every muscle and joint, vibrating with a human reaction to the biting cold that had engulfed him for months. He staggered to the sofa, throwing himself into the space that Jon had created gasping for air through the tears that now flowed freely down his face. The world swam before him, and somewhere in the periphery was Jon, forever in his orbit. 

“Martin?” his voice was stronger now, red-rimmed eyes looking up at him from the floor, eyes full of worry and fear. Why did breathing seem like the hardest thing in the world, why did every breath feel like it was being fought for through layers of salt and sediment? Why did the world suddenly feel so infinite and at the same time feel smaller than an atom? To close? To real. 

He felt the heat burning through the denim that clad his leg, it burned like a nuclear explosion on his skin, he scrambled backwards away from the source of the heat.

Through tears, he watched as Jon pulled his hand back from where he had placed it on his knee in an attempt to comfort. 

“Don’t touch me!” 

Jon looked hurt, his brown eyes large in the dim light cast from the lamp overhead. The rational part of Martin’s brain tried to tell him it was alright, it was just Jon. However, the part of him that had been overtaken by the Lonely screamed at the danger The Archive was dangerous. The Archive would hurt it given an opportunity, he should run, run back to the gentle nothingness. Everything that had felt so dull before now seemed to scream a crimson warning.

Jon didn’t make a move, holding Martin’s gaze instead.

_ Jon showed you the way, he cares about you, you aren’t alone. You can trust him.  _

Once upon a time, the idea of staring into the eyes of Jonathan Sims would have sent butterflies slamming against his ribcage in a kamikaze mission, flustering him beyond any reasonable reaction to such a simple thing, but now… now that gaze grounded him. It burned into his very core. 

He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, Jon kneeling on the floor by his legs and Martin curled in on himself, but the light outside the flat had completely faded by the time Jon finally moved, getting to his feet and heading into the tiny space he called a kitchen.

Martin watched in silence as Jon filled the kettle from the tap before moving over to put it in its cradle, the faint electric buzz filling the silence of the room. Martin took time to look over the man who he had missed constantly for almost a year. Jon was limping slightly, but there were no new visible scars that Martin could see at a glance, but his face was grubby, covered in the same grit and sand that seemed to permeate every inch of Martin’s skin. 

He looked tired, behind the inflamed skin around his eyes sat the black bags that seemed to just be a permanent part of his visage ever since taking on the head archivist role. They looked darker than ever. His hair now streaked with white alongside the ever permanent grey, he looked exhausted but he buzzed with an energy that even Martin in his hazy state could feel.

He watched as Jon took two cups from a box and routed around in a cupboard for teabags, watching as he ground himself the way Martin had a million times before. He watched Jon scoop two spoonfuls of sugar into each cup before reaching out for a canister of white on the shelf.

“If you put Coffee Mate in that cup, I’m going back into the fog.” Martin heard himself saying quietly. Jon’s hand paused, he flexed it a few times before dropping it back to the bench and inclining his head so he could see Martin.

“Milk probably has its own ecosystem cultivating, I haven’t been home in a while.”

“It’s fine black.” 

Jon nodded once as the kettle boiled, the familiar sound of the boiling water falling into the faded yellow mugs grounded him, the aroma of the cheap tea bags, the type Jon really liked despite the fancy ones that sat in the break room at the institute comforted him in a way. 

Soon the tea was pressed into his hand, its warmth so different from the burn that had radiated from Jon’s touch. He wrapped both hands around the chipped porcelain watching as the steam curled up into the cold flat, Jon stood before him debating where to place himself, every available seat bar one where Martin sat still piled high with paperwork. Eventually, he put his tea down on the table and shoved the rest of the papers from the sofa, making room for himself. A rush of warmth filled Martin as he watched the cat-like destruction the smaller man had caused, almost swatting the stacks away, Jon kicked off his shoes and folded himself cross-legged on to the other side of the sofa reaching out and taking hold of his own yellow mug resting it gently on his lap, his eyes staring out from behind the blanket of hair that fell around his face. 

Both men held the gaze, soggy, mucky and dishevelled from the fallout of the last twenty-four hours. 

"What happened?” Jon asked gently, Martin could tell he was trying to keep the compulsion out of his voice as much as he could, but the air still buzzed heavily with the static that seemed to radiate from him, however, the beholding did not rip the answer from Martin’s lips when it was given it was given of his own free will.

He took a sip from the black tea, it tasted bitter on his tongue after months of everything tasting dull and distant, but his mouth was dry and he needed something familiar. He barely recognised his own voice when the words found their way into the air between them.

“I was supposed to kill Jonah… take his place in the panopticon, it was all part of some scheme of Peter’s to find out about the extinction.” he paused taking another sip to soothe his voice. “When I wouldn’t do it, well Elias seemed ...happy? Peter said something about a bet? Next thing I know I've been cast into the forsaken and well… you know the rest.” 

“Elias… Jonah...he said something about a bet… something about me being the prize?” Jon worried at his lip, his eyes cast down towards the cooling tea in his lap. 

“Can’t you just … Know?” 

“I... I can’t see as clear when I’m around you, you-”

“-oh?” 

Jon met his eye again “The static around you dampens the noise, it’s been constant ever since...well since I came back.” 

“So… you can’t” he waved his hand in the general area around his head, Jon shook his in answer. “Well, at least that means Elias… or Jonah or whatever isn’t going to be able to find us either.”

The silence settled in again then, both unsure what to say both studying each other in quiet reverence and for a time Martin was happy just to be here.

* * *

  
  
  
  


The buzz of the intercom woke him. He wasn’t sure where he was when the world first came into focus, sights and smells felt strange and he could still feel that aching down to his bones, as if flu had set in and taken it’s hold on every inch of his body. He ached down to his toes as his body tried to fight back against the change. He felt solid. When had been the last time he felt whole? Long before Jon had come out of a coma, maybe long before the archives. Now he felt as if his existence was pulling itself back together even if his entire body hated him but as he catalogued the aches he was thankful for each and every one. 

The hazy half light cast from the lamp by the sofa illuminated the sharp angles and tiered visage of Jon as he uncurled himself from his own slumber, his eyes darted to the table glancing at the phone that showed a litany of missed calls. He picked it from the toppling pile of books, glancing at it before sliding it into his pocket. The other item found its way back into Martin’s hand as Jon passed him on the way to the door. “Basira,” Jon said in a way of explanation indicating the door.

The whistle felt cool to the touch but didn’t burn like ice as it had before, he glanced over it turning it in his palm looking at the dents and rivets left by years of use. He tucked it into his shirt pocket, he didn’t feel like thinking about it just now, how many people had been lost in the fog to its call. He should destroy it, but the part of him that had been well and truly on the way to becoming an avatar of the lonely wouldn't let him, he knew that down to his aching bones. But for now, the less explaining the better. The thought of having to speak to anyone, even Jon seemed to be a herculean task. However as he watched Jon speak into the intercom, voice heavy with sleep as he invited Basira up with the press of a buzzer, he knew he wanted to tell him everything and he would in time. If they were given the luxury of such a thing.

Basira came bearing gifts. The sort that are found in the twenty-four-hour Tesco at three in the morning. Three paper cups of vending machine coffee, three bars of dairy milk and a box of doughnuts. 

“Eat.” she ordered throwing the donuts onto the wobbly dining table and glaring at Jon. 

“I don’t…”

“It’s sugar for the shock. Humour me.” she glared and Jon did as he was told picking up a doughnut and shoving it in his mouth. Martin found a bag thrust into his hand, “ I raided your offices, I grabbed what I could before sectioned got into things, managed to grab a handful of statements, and a few of your personal things.” the bag in his hand was familiar. It had been stuffed in the archives back when he was still worried about things like worms, it felt like a lifetime ago now. “I’ll try and get your stuff from your flat… but I get the feeling that might not be for a while yet.”

“Any signs of Elias?” Jon asked quietly.

“None, he’s probably hiding, too many ways to get in and out of the institute if you know the tunnels.”

A gentle rage began to bubble in Martins ribcage. Jonah Magnus. All of this was his fault.“He...Peter had a Litner...it controlled the tunnels...if he has that you won’t ever find him.”

Basira shook her head. “It’s only a matter of time before he shows his face again, and when he does…” she trailed off biting back the anger in her voice. “Anyway… I need to talk to Martin...Alone.” she inclined her head at Jon nodding in the direction of the bedroom. Martin felt himself lean towards Jon almost automatically. Basira read the expression on his face as if he had shouted it at the top of his lungs, he was scared to let Jon out of his sight and with the look on Jon’s face he wasn’t too happy about it either.

“It’s only for a moment, I Just… well Jon the less you know the better when it comes to keeping you hidden. Like you said, Martin blocks a bit of beholding, we might as well use it to your advantage.” 

“You have a plan?”

“I have a safe house. Well, Daisy has a safe house. well, she has many but this one… you both should be able to lie low there, at least until I come up with a better plan.” Basira looked exhausted, was the adrenaline finally fading? 

“Daisy?” Martin asked quietly Basira shook her head once, Martin had a sinking feeling that the loud sounds in the archive before they had disappeared into Helen’s hallways had been that of the hunt, the gaunt look that shadowed the woman’s face spoke louder than any words. Jon simply walked up to Basira grasping her shoulder. An understated action but it spoke volumes as the two of them locked eyes briefly, a knowing look passed between the two. Martin was suddenly acutely aware of the amount of time he had been away from the archives, how far he had pushed himself away from the few people who actually cared a damn about him. He felt the anger churning again somewhere in the pit of his chest, it felt strange to feel anything after months of trying not to.

Jon excused himself into his bedroom, grabbing the duffle bag from beside the door as he did so, telling them he was going to pack. Basira waited until Jon started opening draws and shuffling around in his room before she held out a folded bit of paper to Martin.

“What will we do for money? Won’t we leave a trail?” 

“Probably, but sectioned aren't going to chase after you, not over a border, that’s someone else’s worry. I took the liberty of cloning your cards, I’ll use them here in a few places to throw off the scent.” Basira handed him his wallet, he hadn’t even realised it was missing. “Take the biggest amount you can out somewhere near Euston, then drive… there's an old red Corsa around the side of Jon’s flat, Gumtree is a godsend…” Basira handed him a car key and a copper door key hanging on a tartan fob. “Drive to Carlisle, then you can look at the address. The less Elias… or Jonah... or whatever knows the better, we might as well get something out of your freaky new powers.” There was no venom in her words, Basira was worried for them and Martin appreciated it. “Just ...look after each other yeah?” The, _ I can’t lose anyone else ,  _ remained unsaid _.  _

Martin nodded sliding the keys into his pocket and folding the paper up once more he slid it into the note section of his wallet. 

“Thank you.” 

Basira nodded once, “As soon as it is safe I will forward you on some more statements for Jon.” Martin felt the heat of her gaze on him as he pushed his wallet back in his pocket. “Do you need anything? “ she asked carefully. He could feel the worry behind it, how far had Martin fallen ? Was he a full avatar for the lonely? Did he need to feed in the same way that Jon did? He knew the questions because they were the same ones that had been running through his mind for weeks, if not months, he just wished he had an answer.

“I think I’m fine?” he ventured. “At least, I need to eat food? Real food, not trauma? At least I don’t think I do?” the weight of that statement dug into his chest. He tried to laugh it off but he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, let alone himself.

Basira seemed to understand even if she wouldn’t hold his gaze, as if she was struggling to keep him in focus. Martin realised then that the fog was still gripping him, he forced himself to be seen. Basira focused on him now, her long hair framing her face, dark eyes trying to understand the sudden sharpness of Martin.

“Sorry, it’s hard to stay present sometimes.”

“I understand but try to for all of us.” she shuffled around in her bag again pulling out a familiar-looking phone and pressing it into martins hand wrapping her own hands around his briefly. He tried his hardest not to flinch but failed, to her credit Basira didn’t look offended. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, pulling his hand away and shoving his phone into his pocket.

“I charged it, put mine and Daisy’s burner phones in it, just to be safe…” she chuckled. “Don’t look so worried your password wasn’t exactly hard to work out.” Martin felt the colour rise in his cheeks. “listen, just keep him safe. I’ll worry about the hunters and Elias… or Magnus. Just check in with me..”

Martin looked at her now, Basira very rarely let her guard down, but now she looked scared, open… so much worse than in the days after the Unknowing when the two of them had been left in that awful limbo between morning and hope. 

“Are you going to be ok?” 

Basira shrugged, “I’ll try my best to be, I'm still tied to the institute, not like I can go anywhere far, so is Daisy. If Tim couldn’t escape then…” she tipped her head back then, staring at the crack in the ceiling. “I’ll try and lay low, try and blend in. I can look after myself. But you and Jon… you need each other.”

Jon chose that moment to rejoin them. He had changed into a jumper and jeans and dragged his hair back into a messy bun, he dropped the duffle bag next to the front door and looked at them expectantly. 

“So we have a plan?”


	2. Chapter 2

*****

The wind rattled the car as they drove; the sunrise was just peaking over the distant fields as they made their way out of the city; they waved through council estates, into industrial sprawling complexes. The cold grey daylight washing out the world in muted greys and sandstone. From factories to farmlands and into small thatched cottages that peppered the side of the road, Postcard ready and selling a lie of domestic happiness. 

The rain that had been threatening hit as they moved towards the motorway, the rhythmic clatter on the window almost soothing in its song. They had followed Basira’s instructions to the letter. The little red car was battered but up to the journey, the heating worked and the radio at least picked up radio two; it played now filling the tired silence that filled the car under the ever-present patter of the rain. Jon had complained when Martin had said that he would drive them out of London, only giving up when Martin had pointed out that having something to concentrate on would help him stay present after that Jon didn’t argue. Every so often Martin would glance at him when he was safe to do so, most times he was met with a timed smile, a ghost of a thing. But it was enough.

Martin could count on one hand the number of times he had seen a genuine unguarded smile on the face of the man at his side. When he came back from the states, his face had lit up when the first proper cup of tea got placed in his hands. That smile had reached all the way to his eyes, a warmth had bubbled under that gaze and a truth that Martin had clung on to in the darkness. Jon rarely kept eye contact, but he had then. Martin had a feeling he was being filled away, archived and stored somewhere inside Jon's mind. Now as the rain fell in sheets and news of Brexit floated through the speakers of the tiny car radio, Martin was aware of that same feeling, it prickled at the back of his neck. The feeling of being seen after such a long absence tinged with something else. Hope? It didn't feel like hope, it felt like something stronger, something he was afraid to acknowledge. 

Jon started grumbling as they got closer to Nottingham, it wasn't audible but Martin had worked with Jon for so long now it didn't need to be. Jon was restless. As long as he had known him Jon had always been animated, constantly moving. He had broken more pens with his fidgeting than Martin would care to count and the fact the rug in the main office didn't have a clear path etched into it from where he paced when reading statements seemed like some sort of a miracle. They had been driving for almost three hours now. The only time he has seen Jon that still was in a coma and even then his eyes had been moving constantly under heavy lids. 

Jon grumbled aloud as they pulled in to the services. They didn't have time for this, it wasn’t safe they should keep moving. However as they parked up he was the first out of the car, eyes scanning for any immediate threat. 

"Anything?" Martin asked quietly over the top of the car.

"No, but stay close. This is a foothold of the lonely. Or at least I think it is…" Jon gave Martin a pointed look. 

"I can't just turn it off you know." He huffed pulling the zip up on his jacket and starting towards the services. Jon slipped into his side now hovering so close arms bumped with every step.

"I… I don't want you to… it's … it's nice actually… quite. I guess I forgot what it was like to only have my own voice in my head." As they waited to get through the revolving door Jon's hand came to rest on the crook of Martin's elbow. Jon's eyes found his. "Just stay where I can see you. I can't… not again." the words unsaid were heavy in the air between them, in way of response Martin closed his hand over Jon’s where it lay.

“Not going anywhere...not without a fight.” 

As they edged their way through the revolving door Martin expected Jon to drop his grip on his arm, but like the constant point of connection that had been forged in the lonely, it seemed as if Jon had no intention of pulling away from the one single point of warmth and connection they shared. 

“Is this ok?” Jon asked as they waited in the line at the Starbucks, he nodded at his hand linked into the curve of Martin’s elbow. Was it alright? Once upon a time, he would have died on the spot at such a casual touch between them, but now, now it grounded him. He placed his hand over Jon’s again giving a gentle squeeze. The corners of Jon’s mouth twitched into a smile and a little more of the fog receded.

  
  


The sun came out for the rest of their journey, it left a hazy fog up ahead. The sun cracking through this haze, however, made it almost impossible to confuse it for the emptiness that they were running from. 

Jon had started talking somewhere outside Stoke on Trent and hadn’t stopped since. He seemed to need to fill the silence with all the things that Martin had missed out on in his forced isolation. 

It was almost like being back in the archives, hearing Jon’s recorded statements, filling in the blanks although this time it was Jon doing the follow up rather than himself. Had he looked so eager when he provided Jon with the gaps in his knowledge? It had been too long since he had sat and just listened to Jon’s voice, every inch of him dragged into the present moment through the concentration of driving and the warmth that ran through him at the sound of Jon’s dulcet tones.

They were on the outskirts of Carlisle when talk turned to Daisy and Basira. 

“Daisy was a different woman when she came out of the buried.” Jon sighed, he had started getting restless again, the energy was radiating from him as he drummed his fingers against the inside of his knee. 

“I don’t think any of us are the same people we were a year ago,” Martin muttered as he tried to find the right slip road into the city centre. “Some of us died for a start.” he meant it light-hearted but it came out with more spite in it than he ever expected from himself. 

Beside him, Jon stiffened in his seat “I didn’t do it on purpose.” 

“I didn’t say you did.” his hand reached out now to Jon’s where it tapped away on his leg violently. It stilled under the gentle press. “I know you wouldn’t be that much of a moron. Obviously you didn’t die on purpose. ” 

The car fell silent. Martin had listened to the tape, the one Elias had left lying before he was carted off to prison. He knew Jon was trapped in his own dreams, feeding the eye through his own nightmares. The fact that Martin couldn’t reach in and save him from himself had haunted him as he had sat by that cold grey hospital bed. Talking but knowing that Jon couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see him, couldn’t scold him for wasting his time doing nothing in the uncomfortable hospital chair. 

“I’m sorry, I really am. “ Jon’s voice sounded small.

“What for now?”

“Not being there when you needed me.”

“You were there when I needed you most.” he gave the hand wrapped in his own a gentle squeeze before he returned both hands to the wheel as they pulled into the car park of an abandoned factory. Jon sat quietly watching as Martin rummaged in his jean and pulled out his wallet. 

“Basira said to use the Forsaken to our advantage, so I guess this is where I see if I can… you know… do a Lukas.” he chanced a look at Jon whose face was contorted into a mix of humour and disgust

“Let’s not call it ‘Doing a Lukas’ it’s got connotations I'd rather not think about ” 

Martin actually chuckled at that. “Let’s not call it that then… anyway, that’s Elias’s job... _ was _ Elias’s job I guess.”

“What?” Jon looked confused. Martin had gotten so used to seeing him so aware of everything that seeing him look so lost reminded him strongly of the first year in the archives, when it was painfully obvious Jon had no idea what he was doing, back when his crush on his boss was just a silly little thing and everyone and every fear known to man were out to kill them both.

Martin took the paper from his wallet and entered the address that Basira had given him into google maps on his phone.

“No… no ignoring this what about Peter and Elias?” 

“Elias and Peter… they were married,” he smirked as he mounted his phone in the holder on the dash, he shouldn’t feel good having this bit of knowledge to hold over the beholding, over Jon but it felt good to see the look of abject horror that crept across the other man’s face. “Oh don’t look at me like that.” he chanced a side glance at the man in the passenger seat who seemed to be trying to piece together a jigsaw in his mind, the only problem was he had no corners and the lid was to another puzzle entirely.

“Really?”

“I know, I was shocked at first, but who am I to judge? The way I see it they gave each other a reason to be grounded. Elias didn’t spiral into madness with all that knowledge, and Peter didn’t get lost in the forsaken.”

“Anchors.” Jon mused, his fingers drumming now on the dashboard. “It explains why Elias never wanted us to look into the Lukas family at least.”

Martin watched as google maps calculated the best route, trying his best to keep the fog around him at a safe distance. 

“I can’t imagine weddings were fun,” Martin muttered as he started the car.

“Weddings? As in plural?” 

Martin glanced at the bemused looking archivist as he checked the traffic before pulling back into the road. 

“If the wind changes your face will stay like that.” he scoffed as Jon puzzled over this new information, he had missed that face of utter confusion, had missed this non-beholding Jon. Although he couldn’t help but like the softer edges that came with the passage of time and circumstance. 

“How in the name of whatever god you pick, did he manage to hide that.” 

“Were any of us looking? And no offence Jon, you aren't the most ...observant... when it comes to these sorts of things. I mean… how long did it take you to realise that Daisy and Basira were a couple?” 

“That’s not fair… I am observant… sometimes.” it was quite cute to hear Jon flustered like this, it did feel a little unfair, after all Martin knew exactly what buttons to press to get the man riled up. As they pulled on to a dual carriageway and towards the sea Martin took another look at Jon, sat with his legs crossed in the passenger seat and sulking, he looked so much younger like this, dressed down and petulant.

The car fell silent as Jon fidgeted with edges of his jumper, twisting his fingers in and out of the cuffs as Martin stared ahead at the road. The road was relatively quiet and Martin found his eyes drifting to the gentle waves that lapped the shore to the side of the road, he hardly noticed as the fog began to fill the car.

“Melanie is dating Georgie now, did you know?” Jon said loudly breaking the trance that he hadn’t even realized he was slipping into the grasps of. Martin shook his head turning his attention back to the grey tarmac and away from the white sea fret that called like a siren song.

“As in Georgie ...Georgie?” he asked unsure of his own voice. 

“Yes as in … I… I went there when I didn’t know what to do… I … Martin… I didn’t know how… Anyway… yeah they live together now. The cat even likes her more than me. The traitor.” Martin tried not to put his own words in between the stuttering mumble that fell from Jon’s mouth. 

He settled for making light of the situation “The ultimate betrayal.” 

“Georgina or the cat?” 

“The cat.” Martin tried not to think bad about most people, but even in the depth of the Lonely the short conversation he had with Georgie Barker had not endeared the woman to him, he could see how she could be a good match for Melanie. But she had turned her back on Jon when he needed her the most. He tried not to think about the way that Jon had turned to Georgie when he was on the run, the fact that he could have turned to Martin, he could feel the nagging pull of jealousy even now.

“How did you make the jump from Elias and Peter, to your  _ ex  _ and Melanie ? Are they on their seventh divorce as well?” 

Jon shifted uneasy in his seat, he knew he was being harsh, he could feel it in the bite of his words. 

“Just thinking out loud.” Martin hated how small and fragile Jon’s voice sounded.

They fell into silence after that. 

  
  


The dual carriageway soon turned into winding country roads, rivers and lakes replacing the crashing waves, mountains replacing cliff faces. The land painted in shades of green and red, the final kiss of winter having not quite ripped the last of the leaves from the trees with its harsh winds. The further inland they got the more the impending feeling of dread lifted from Martins shoulders. He pushed back the fog now as they joined the last stretch of country road. They hadn’t seen a place name since they had traveled through Knowe, a tiny village a few miles back made up of a hand full of tiny white cottages. Martin had almost had to pull the car over when he caught Jon’s eye, the two of them had almost broken down into hysterics over the irony, of course they would travel through a place called Knowe, Martin had half expected google maps to tell them that their destination was on the left. However, the directions lead them further north, the rolling hills gave way to thick forests that almost blacked out the sun. Craggy mountain sides that were dotted with goats and pastures that held thick coated sheep and much to Martin’s joy, large brown shaggy cows with giant horns.

“I would hate to meet one of these things on a dark night.” Jon said as Martin slowed to let one cross their path, they had turned off into a lane half a mile back and the sign had said free roaming cattle, it had not disappointed. The large brown eyes turned to look at the car as Jon spoke. Martin couldn’t help it, he let out an audible squeak of excitement. “Oh, they're cute, they're so fluffy!” 

“Oh yes, they're cute right up to the point where they kill you.” Jon said sinking back into his seat as the cow moved to look at them.

“Struggling to work out if you mean you or the cow right now.” Martin muttered under his breath as he tried to suppress a grin

“The COW Martin.” The cow moved then, rubbing its face alongside the passenger side window. Jon was almost in Martin’s lap as he leant away from the thing. 

“It can’t get through the door, it’s just curious.” Martin lent over him now tapping on the window where the cow now pressed a rotund nose against the glass.

“Murder pig …” Jon grumbled in his ear causing Martin to change the object of his attention from the fluffy beast outside the window and to the smaller man tucked at his elbow. “It’s a cow.” 

“My point stands.” Jon reached under Martin grabbing the horn and sounding it.

The cow moved away from the car looking disgruntled at having lost its new toy to a loud noise. Martin looked at the map again sinking back into the driver's seat, trying desperately not to think about the fact that he had just called Jon cute. Beside him Jon retreated back to his own seat, the blush colouring his cheeks slightly setting off the white recesses of his scars. 

“Almost there, so if you really hate cows you're out of luck.” His voice broke as he spoke, trying not to think of the way Jon looked when he was flustered like this. 

“At least if we get eaten by cows it will make for an interesting addition to the archives.”

“We are not going to get eaten by cows, stop being so dramatic.” the car bumped over a cattle grate at the end of the lane causing a small but endearing disgruntled huff to emit from Jon “I’m not being dramatic, I'm being realistic.”

“Just how messed up are our lives that being eaten by cows is a valid cause of death?” Martin mused to the world at large as he tried his best and failed to miss the muddy hole in the lane.

“Did you miss the bit where I became a pawn in some giant eyes game and you can suddenly poof into nothingness?” 

“We are not calling it ‘poofing into nothingness’, that's worse than ‘doing a Lukas’.”

Jon shook his head as if trying to force some sort of mental image out of his mind. 

*your destination is on the right*

Martin was saved having to think of something to reply by the view out of the window.

The cottage was not what he had expected, it was a cottage for a start.

“Well, Daisy does like the Archers.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the kudos guys your all good cows... apart from you at the back ... you're a good alpaca... although don't know how you got on the farm
> 
> feed your starving fanfic writer a comment?


	3. Chapter 3

Martin pulled the car on to the small gravel drive in front of the stone cottage, the building itself stood squat against the hillside, it looked like it had been hewn out of the stones in the surrounding hills, hills that now looked like they were trying to claim it back, thick vines of ivy and moss growing on every available surface. It was easy work for them to grab the two bags from the back seat and head up the tiny path to the wooden door painted a deep forest green that looked like it had been chosen to blend in with the plants that adorned the walls. Martin fished the keys from his pocket and turned the lock. 

The light was starting to fade now, casting long shadows across the dusty floor. The stone from outside extended into the building, the floor and walls were made from the same material, interspersed with timber beams. It was old, really old. Beside him, Jon tried to flick the lightswitch on experimentally. Nothing happened. 

“Don’t suppose Basira told you how to get the electric on did she?” he ventured dropping his bag by the door.

“Nope.” 

“You didn’t happen to see if there were any pylons on the way here?” Jon glanced back out the door but the track they had come down was hidden from view by a thicket of pine trees. 

“Can’t say I spotted any, but I was a little distracted protecting someone from murder cows, remember?” he could almost hear Jon rolling his eyes behind him. He stepped further into the building now, part of him listening out for anything that might be a threat. What if something had beaten them here? What if this was all just another part of Jonah Magnus’s master plan. His eyes darted around taking in the layout of the building. Aware of Jon doing the same behind him. The kitchen sat off to one side of the front door overlooking the gravel drive. The main room of the house was the living area, a beaten-up sofa sat in front of a large stone fireplace, a tube telly sat in the corner of the room with a stack of discarded videotapes and DVDs scattered around it. A pile of logs stood beside a bookcase stacked with battered books and board games. Two doors stood to the back of the living space. Martin moved towards them, Jon tight at his heels. 

The wooden door to the left revealed a small bathroom, the one to the right opened to the small cramped bedroom with its one double bed taking up most of the space, a small dresser pressed up against the wall below the window. 

Martin sighed. Of course. He was living in a horror story. Obviously, there was only one bed, why would life start being easy on him now? 

“Cosy,” Jon said from his side, his voice was calm and measured. Too calm and measured if truth be told. 

“You could call it that.” Martin deliberately didn’t look at him.

“We have overhead lights so there must be a generator somewhere,” Jon said after a few moments of silence. Martin dropped his bag next to the bedroom door. He would worry about stupid things like sleeping arrangements once they managed to get some power. The sunlight was fading fast and cute as they were, Jon was right, he didn’t fancy facing down a Highland cow in the pitch dark. 

After a short investigation, they found the outhouse and the generator round the back of the squat building. However, after ten minutes of trying to get the thing to fire up, the spluttering protest led them to the realization that it was out of fuel.

“There was a village about a mile back…” The suggestion died on Jon’s lips as soon as it was said.

“I’m not driving through a field of cows in the dark.” And that was that they would worry about it tomorrow. If tomorrow happened.

  
  
  
  


The flames danced in the fireplace now, the warmth seeping into stones of the place they would call home for the foreseeable future. Jon poked at the logs with the poker. His cigarette almost forgot as he watched the flames curl around each other almost as if he were hypnotised. Martin sat watching as he flicked the top of his lighter open and closed absent in presence his mind miles away.

“I’m sure Daisy is fine,” he muttered to himself every so often as he rubbed absent-mindedly with his good hand over the thin scar on his neck. 

Martin had raided the dresser for blankets and taken the pillows and duvet from the bed. Without power, there was no light to be had anywhere but the fire that doused the place in a warm red glow, to soothing to belong to the desolation and much more on the gentle warmth side than the blazing inferno they had come to expect, it was doing the job. Sometimes a fire is just a fire. 

While they still had daylight they had combed the place for spiderwebs, doors that shouldn’t be there, any staircases that could lead to nowhere. The cottage was just a cottage.

Somehow that seemed to be both a relief and a disappointment to him, it felt like after everything, this being a normal cottage seemed an anticlimax.

The silent agreement to stay near the fire had come from the fear that the dark may have a way in if the lights were not easy to reach. So now they had made a temporary camp by the warm glow, picking at the meagre supplies that had been gathered at the services what seemed a lifetime ago.

The rain that had followed them from London reached them as Martin's watch ticked over to ten. The wind screeched around the stone walls that surrounded them, echoing in far off rivets and gullies of the hills beyond. Martin lay on his side facing the fire watching as the flames danced lower in the grate only to dip and rise again as a gust of wind blew down the flume. 

Jon had positioned himself close, not much room between the old battered sofa and the stone hearth. Jon didn’t take up much room but sat by Martin’s head where it rested on the pillows, blankets wrapped tight around him and hand positioned close to the base of Martin’s neck. Martin longed for nothing more than to lean back a little, feel Jon’s hand against the base of his scalp, even if it meant nothing, to feel a small touch of human contact would stop him slipping silently into the fog that he could sense every time he closed his eyes.

He was scared. It was the first time he had allowed himself to think about everything that had happened, it was the first time he comprehended everything that had happened in the last year without trying to push everything down dissociate it to help the bigger picture. It hit him as the ground would after falling from a great height. It was suddenly hard to breathe, the sense of loss overpowering him in every way, pushing out all the air in his lungs, constricting. There were no tears, tears were not strong enough to encapsulate the feeling of loss that filled him now. 

The fingers on his neck burned. Fingers carding through his hair as Jon scooped Martins head on to his knee, bending low to grasp him in the space between his thighs and chest. He could feel the frantic beating of his own heart a frantic vivace against his ribcage matching that of Jon’s. Martin found himself curling himself around Jon, wrapping his legs in his arms and holding him in place, claiming him, all skin and bones but alive and here, some ceaseless watcher didn’t get to have him, he wasn’t Jonah Magnus’s to give away.

It took a while for Martin to pick out the whispers on the air as they gently rocked on the spot,  _ I am so sorry…  _ again and again under the breath of the man who held him now, trying to hold him together as feelings and memories tried to desperately rip them both apart. 

When the tears began he knew he was safe to move, he broke out of Jon’s grip manoeuvring to hold the smaller man in his arms, pulling the blankets around them as much as he could in their current situation. He should be scared of the man that fits so neatly into the curve of his chest. He should logically want nothing to do with the monster than compelled a man to death with the power of his voice, the epi-centre of the world of monsters that had them trapped and under its control. Yet he couldn’t find it in him to be scared of Jon. He was no more a monster back in the early days of the archives than he was now, small and shaking and where he should always have been, wrapped in Martins embrace as he pulled him tighter.

“Stop saying sorry” he muttered into the mop of hair by his chin, rubbing circles into the small of Jons backtracing the small divots in his spine, how the skin pulled taut over his ribs. Martin is trying to calm him, and by proxy himself. The fear that used to pulse through him the idea of holding Jon as this had never shown itself since he had been cast into the fog by Peter. 

Jon tried to break away but Martin pinned him in place, gripping him tighter around the waist, gripping his shoulders gently but firmly scared that he would fracture him under his grip.

“Martin…” there was a tingling behind it but that just made Martin double down on his hold.

“No you don’t that doesn’t work, I won’t let it.” he sighed resisting the Beholding stirring on his own tongue, enough of the Lonely constantly present now, but still aligned enough with the Beholding to feel it as almost an itch under his skin. Jon slumped his head bumping into Martin’s solidness sinking into the softness of his shirt.

Jon mumbled something into his chest, reluctantly Martin released his grip.“I’m a monster,” he repeated quietly eyes cast up to meet Martin’s own.

“That makes two of us.” Jon’s eyes were edged with green now, he could pick it out in the flickering light, it ringed the iris, creeping into the dark brown he was accustomed to, the dilated pupils glinted in the flames, tiny pinpricks of light dancing in the dark. Martin held his gaze. The dark sun. He suppressed the shudder at Knowing that, when he was close to Jon like this it seemed to make it stronger. 

Jon broke eye contact first “You haven’t killed anyone.” 

“No, but I stood by and let Peter feed people to the one alone and I serve not one but two Dredd gods… I think that technically makes me more of a monster than you at this point.” 

Jon slumped, he looked defeated. “But Sasha… Tim… Daisy…” he trailed off.

“Sasha, you couldn’t do anything that was on all of us… well no, it was on the stranger wasn’t it and Tim was hell-bent on his own destruction, just another pawn in the strangers' games and Daisy… Daisy will be fine if that alcoholic vampire hunter can survive all that and still keep coming I’m sure we will see Daisy again.” Martin had returned to rubbing his hands in small circles where he held Jon in place, his eyes now focused on the mismatched furniture that littered the place, under his touch Jon seemed to relax. “Maybe take her to Ikea, get her some candles for this place… you know make it more homely?” Jon snorted at that, his forehead coming to rest against Martin's shoulder sinking into the hold, his arms now resting on Martin's waist his fingers mimicking the circles that Martin traced with his own.

“I don’t deserve you.” 

Martin’s heart drummed harder in his chest. “Yeah, Tim used to say that a lot, but what did he know?”

“I miss him.”

“So do I, every day, that's why we can’t let them win, can’t let Jonah Magnus get what he wants,” Martin stilled his hand “ You don’t have to do this alone, you have me,”

“I'm scared.”

“Honestly, I would be worried if you weren't. I'd be checking I hadn’t just yanked you off into the forsaken, you don’t feel anything in there.”

“I felt you.” Jon tightened his grip.

“Yeah... Yeah, you did.”

A vicious howl of wind whipped around the house causing the fire to stutter and both men to break apart. In the grate, the fire dimmed and Martin moved to grab some more logs to top it up before it went out completely, plunging them into darkness. When he looked up Jon was staring at him, his chin resting on his knees pulled up tight into his chest. Jon’s eyes were puffed and red-rimmed. His hair falling out of the scraped back bun falling around his face framing it like some sort of painting, even dishevelled and distressed, face lit by the dancing flames he was heartbreakingly beautiful. Lonely or not that idea of Jon had never faded. Nor had that need to watch him, to read the small movements and tels that told Martin more than any words that could fall from Jon’s lips. He tried not to stare back, tried to focus on building up the fading fire but it was hard with the constant feeling of Jon’s eyes on him. He knew it had nothing to do with the beholding, this was all Jon.

He felt Jon sturring behind him, a glance let him know he was straightening out the blankets that had been upset across the floor. Smoothing them out and positioning them so that they could both be closer to the fire. A hand in the small of his back only made him jump slightly. He turned to see Jon lifting the duvet at his side offering up space beside him, his face still and measured but his eyes wide in hope. 

Silently Martin accepted the invitation, laying on his side, face parallel with Jon. Was this what home felt like? Martin had never really believed it when people wrote poetry about a person feeling like home, but right now every nerve was screaming that Jon was safe and this was what home felt like. His body betrayed him then, sleep tugging at him in the gentle warmth cast by the fire and the warmth of the gaze that fell upon him. Under the blanket Jon sought out his hand, bringing it up to his chest. 

“Get some sleep. I won’t let you go, I see you now, I can find you wherever you go.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah you guys I love getting little pings in my inbox with the comments thankyou so much...


	4. Chapter 4

It was a strange scent that surrounded him as he woke, the burning embers in the fire still heating the room, casting a woody warm aroma that Martin couldn't help but associate with the strange content feeling that washed over him now. He took a moment to register the comfortable weight that pressed up against his back and the arm that wrapped around him lightly, fingers rucking into the collar of his shirt. He sunk into the warmth, gently reaching up to untighten the death grip on his neckline and twinning fingers in with his own. Behind him, Jon sturred, he had slept. They both had, blissfully dreamless sleep, maybe they had cancelled each other out? The fog at least seemed to have subsided, bright sunlight breaking through the curtains, dust bunnies dancing in the rays of light as they crept across the floor causing illuminated pools of warmth, helping to push back some of the lingering darkness that seemed to have been present for so long that Martin welcomed it with his whole heart.

Another shifting indicated that Jon was awake, he grasped Martin’s hand rubbing his thumb along the side of Martin’s palm before giving it a gentle squeeze. 

How many times had Martin imagined what it would be like to wake up next to Jon, to feel him pressed into his chest as he gently roused from slumber? Not once in his imagination had Jon held him, been the one to hold him to his chest gathering him in his arms protecting him in his sleep? It was something he never expected but was grateful for none the less.

“morning .” Jon half yawned drawing his hand from Martins grip and stretching out his limbs. Martin rolled over to face him, hair now shook free and hanging around his face. Jon looked even more like the mad scientist that his voice always promised, he stretched himself out towards the ceiling, all of the bones in his body apparently choosing to click at the same time, he winced at the sound, then wrinkled his nose before smelling his shirt.

“We need power, I’m sorry you had to sleep next to that stench all night,” Jon said contorting his face as he sniffed himself again.

“I can’t smell much better? I mean it’s not like we’ve been on the run for our lives or anything.” Martin rolled his eyes… “Melanie will be happy to hear you’re living up to your true trash panda potential…” 

“Trash panda?”

“Honestly Jon, I thought you knew what a meme was…” Jon dug him in the hip and Martin got the first true grin that he had seen this side of the Unknowing. It lit up the smaller man's face. Martin wanted to reach out and kiss him. Just grab him and pull him in. Yet, that action seemed like it belonged to another part of him, part of him that was hiding behind a curtain, just waiting for its turn at centre stage. It was a constant presence, always had been. Yet it had taken him losing everything to the forsaken to make itself known.  He had to lose everything to realise that his own fear and doubt were the things that were holding him back. 

In the forsaken everything felt muted and dull, he had been the true him for the first time in a long time, not shadowed by the constant doubt of not being good enough that was instilled by his mother. Not scared to voice the thoughts that had made him submit to anyone who was willing to push at his boundaries. Peter had been the first person to ever really tell him that he was proud of his work, his progress, and in a way that was the fuel that had been the man’s downfall in the end.

Martin was nothing to nobody, yet, he had seen the way that Jon had looked at him in the days before the unknowing, had seen the desperate looks in the days and weeks after Jon had come out of that coma. Each muttered word building up another layer that the forsaken had fought against.

Martin had seen exactly what he meant to Jon, Jon had shown him. Martin wanted to tell him it wasn’t all just him. He had really loved him, he still did.

However, the curtain that cloaked the part of Martin that wanted to break through was weighed down with the thickness of the fog of the forsaken.

“We should head into town, see if we can get the generator on. I don’t know about you, but I could do with washing some of the forsaken out of my hair.” Martin scruffed his own hair up, it wasn’t anywhere near as long as Jon’s but he hadn’t exactly been keeping on top of it, hadn’t really seen the need when he was on a suicide mission and nobody could see him anyway.

“I think we should head to town because I really need a proper cup of tea.” Jon rocked up to his feet reaching down and pulling Martin up from the floor.

“Priorities.”

“Trash panda priorities.” Jon corected. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The town was indeed not that far away. Martin had reluctantly let Jon drive the small distance, concerned that he may stall the car if a cow suddenly appeared and send them careening into a ditch. He needn't have worried, the cows seemed to have moved further down the glen. The track was clear of anything other than the odd rabbit that Jon didn’t seem to think was about to kill them quite as much as he had the cows the night before.

The village was quaint, a little larger than Martin had expected after seeing the tiny black and white sign to the side of the road. There was a pub, a church and a large bowling green that seemed to have been taken over by the local goose population and free-roaming sheep. They had even less respect for personal space than the cows and just as much curiosity. One of them stared at them lazily chewing on a patch of grass as they parked up outside the little supermarket that seemed to double as a post office and coffee shop. Jon clung to Martin's side a little closer, not that Martin minded, it was quite nice to have someone who wanted to be in his personal space and even better again that it was Jon. The warmth of the sun cut through the chill on the air and the bitterness of the wind, it pushed the thoughts of fog out of his mind as he stifled a giggle at the pained noise that emitted from Jon as the sheep called out to the rest of the flock.

“If you hear bagpipes, let me know and I’ll hide us in the lonely” Martin scoffed.

“Don’t even joke.” Jon huddled in on himself his eyes not shifting from the sheep. Martin shook his head as he opened the door ushering Jon inside and picking up a basket from the side of the door. Jon was surveying the people in the shop, Martin wasn’t surprised that they were eyeing them with curiosity. They looked like a mess and they were obviously weren't from around here, Jon more noticeable than Martin, he could already imagine the thoughts going through the mind of the old man who was sitting reading the paper and sipping on his tea. 

“I feel a little like I’m in a fish tank right now,” Jon muttered as he moved towards the homemade preserves that dotted the walls.

“You and me both, but at least it's not the eye.”

“No… I just think it’s well … we don’t fit in do we…”

“Speak for yourself, I’ll have you know us Blackwoods have a long and bountiful Scottish heritage. I'm two steps away from a kilt.” 

Jon almost laughed, his shoulders relaxing a little as he picked up a small jar of jam, turning it in hand but not really looking at it. “You know what I mean.” 

“It’s ok, I will save you if the geriatric farmer in the corner starts picking on you” he paused for a moment taking a better look at the old man with his cane and mane of grey hair, "or chatting you up." 

“Oh do shut up Martin.” there was no bite in it, it was a playful thing, Martin took the Jar from him and placed it in the basket.

“Oh, sorry boss, forgot that I’m only here to protect you from murder cows,” Martin mumbled in his best Tim impression, again that caused Jon to relax a little. They began browsing the shelf and cabinets. Local produce from small farms in the area filled the shelves, soon they had a full basket of things that positively had Martin salivating at the idea of them. 

The woman at the counter smiled at them warmly as they made their way to the counter.

She was squat and blond, her hair tied into a braid down the back of her neck.

“Just passing through?” she asked as Martin placed the basket down on the counter.

“We're just visiting for a while,” Martin muttered as Jon shifted to his side.

“Oh? What brings you to this part of the world? We don’t often get visitors.” she mused as she jotted down their purchases in an old fashioned ledger.

Jon spoke, Martin was glad of it. The idea of trying to hold a conversation with anyone but Jon filled him with a need to retreat in on himself.

“Needed a bit of a break from city life, our friend has a cottage around here so we figured why not? she was right it’s very scenic around here.” 

“Oh! Are you Daisy’s friends?”

“Yes?” Jon cast a wary eye at Martin, shifting almost instinctively closer.

“You will have to let her know we’ve managed to get her that cheese that her wife loves so much… Basira was so disappointed the last time they stopped by and we had run out… in fact… here, you need to try some of the nettle cheese, it's amazing… on the house.." the woman bundled a small wedge in the brown paper bag as she packed, beside him Martin was aware of the way Jon watched her. Checking to see how she aligned, it buzzed under Martin's skin prodding at the unknown threats in the small shop. Nothing stood out as danger, there was a small trace of the hunt in the air but that had felt like background noise in the space that belonged to Daisy and so technically the hunt. This woman wasn't a threat, no gossamer strings pulled at her, no bloodlust ran through her. She was normal. She was nice. After spending years trying to put people into boxes considering anyone that didn't align threw him. 

She smiled at them and there was a genuine warmth that radiated from it.

Beside him, Jon's thought seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

"Thank you …?"

"Maggie, and that miserable sod over there is Billy, not many of us in this valley. Won't take you long to get to know us all." She reached out a hand to shake. Jon must have seen the reluctance in Martin to take it. Martin, who was usually so welcoming to everyone shying from the conversation? He reached out taking the woman's hand "Gerry… and this is Micheal, it's nice to meet you, Maggie, now I don't suppose you know where we can get some oil for our generator do you?"

  
  
  


"Do you think I look like a Michael?" Martin asked as he lifted the canister of oil into the boot of the car. 

"It was the first name that came to my mind " Jon grumbled from the driver's seat. As Martin slammed the lid of the boot and slid into the passenger seat, he wasn't offended...much. He just found it a strange choice of names to give to someone they may potentially have to see for the rest of their lives no matter how long that would be.

"Don't look at me like that." Jon huffed. 

"Just wondering what part of you associates me with someone who wanted you dead that's all. For the record, I've never stabbed you, or locked you in hell corridors, or you know tried to kill you in general" Martin scoffed "hold on... one of them was a butter knife-related wasn't it."

"Shut up Martin."

"It's Michael… remember?" He folded his arms in front of him, he was only half-joking now the talk of Jon's stab wound had opened a cut Martin had thought he had buried deep. “You're going to have to remember, what if we were stuck here for a while?”

"I just didn't think that far ahead, it seemed stupid to give out our real names … just in case." Jon waved his free hand in a shrugging motion.

"As you wish Gerry." 

"Martin?" 

"What?"

"Thought it was Micheal now?"

His resolve broke at that point, the smile creeping on his face despite the fact he wanted nothing more than to grumble. "Jonathan Sims, you're an absolute arse you know that?"

"Yes, I have been told on more than one occasion. Once by you, I believe." 

"What? When?" 

"Just then! Martin Blackwood, you called me an arse." Jon's eyes were on the gravel path but the smile was easy to see. Jon was joking. Martin had never actually seen Jon actively try and make him laugh. It was enough to push away the last of the fog that hung around his heart.

“Well, at least you know.” 

“At least I know.” 

They slowed as they approached the cattle grate, it was already becoming an almost comforting sound as they crossed the threshold of their little sanctuary in the highlands.

The rattling of the bars a sign that they were almost safe. Jon pulled the car into the little drive, closer to the outhouse this time so Martin wouldn’t need to move as far to get to the generator with the fuel. The thought was nice, but the execution was terrible, partly down to the fact that the cattle grate apparently wasn’t very effective and the large dark brown cow with horns as thick as Martin's forearm had decided to graze on the bush between the house and the shed. Martin watched as Jon made to move to the rear of the car mind focused on the task at hand so much that Jon didn’t realize until it was too late, the creature moving slightly to nudge at him from the darkness.

The scream scattered the birds roosting in the nearby elm as Jon practically had a conniption on the spot, the cow nudged him again, just as Martin rushed to the rear of the car placing himself between Jon and the bovine menace, torn between amusement and actual pity for the man who was apparently scared of cows of all things.

“It wants to be friends, that's all” he placed a hand out in front of him palm up, the cow nudged against it affectionately. Jon crowded behind him using Martin as a human shield.

“Says you.”

“Says me. It’s a good cow Jon if it wanted to eat you it would have run you through with its horns before you realised it was even there.” Martin moved his hand into the shaggy hair that surrounded the creatures face, it repaid the gesture by licking at the skin by his wrist with its long tongue, he laughed as it gently butted into him again. Jon at his back dug his fingers tighter into his side where he gripped him for protection. 

“You decimated an avatar of a fear god, yet you’re scared of a cow… where did I find you ?” 

“Hiding in a basement in central London?” squeaked a tiny voice from behind his arm.

“Honestly Jon, the cow’s probably more scared of you, this is even more ridiculous than that fear of spiders-”

“-that fear had merit!” Jon looked out from behind him now, leaning around his side to look at the creature that Martin was now petting like a cat.

“This one doesn’t though. It's just a cow! In Fact, I’m going to name it...you can’t be scared of-”

“Duke.” Jon cut across him.

“Duke? Sure you don’t want to call it Michael?”

“Not funny.”

“I mean it is … a little.” Martin reached back peeling Jon’s hand out of its death grip and pulling it towards the shaggy hair of the beast. Jon made to jerk his hand back but Martin held him firm sliding himself around Jon’s person until the smaller man was in front of him and closer to Duke. Now that Jon had the creature underhand he seemed to calm, his hand falling into the slow rhythmic pattern of stroking the long dark hair of the beast. 

Martin looked down at him watching as stroke by stroke Jon’s shoulders relaxed. 

“See told you, the cow doesn’t want to eat you.”

“Duke doesn’t, I’m still not convinced about the rest of them.” as if on cue the beast licked the side of Jon’s face, leaving a thick streak of saliva and a trail through the dirt that seemed to be ground into Jon’s skin. That appeared to be the last of the affection and time the creature had for the two men, it turned and headed out of the space that constituted the yard. Jon wiped at his face with the sleeve of the jacket he wore looking slightly disgusted.

“Well now I really do need a bath.” he huffed.

“Yeah, Duke thought that as well by the look of it. Maybe he did want to eat you after all, but you're just too salty." 

Jon's eyes flicked to Martin's face as he reached to open the boot. They lingered. That feeling of being watched flooded Martin again. He was starting to tell the difference now between Jon watching and Jon knowing. He preferred the first. 

  
  
  


The generator had kicked in after the fifth attempt and copious amounts of swearing. It rumbled away till it lulled into a gentle background hum. The shopping was quickly packed away and the blankets returned to the bedroom from there haphazard pile on the sofa. Martin sat outside the bathroom now. His back against the wall, the door to the room slightly ajar. Jon had agreed to wash first after Martin pointed out that some of that grime on him probably belonged to their interim boss, what with his unusual end. At that Jon nearly dry reached and agreed it was probably for the best. However, the reluctance to let Martin far from his sight was etched upon his face. The compromise was this tiny act of privacy, a door half ajar and a constant stream of talking about everything and anything to fill the silence. 

Martin listened now as Jon spoke of his grandmother, the sound of the water in the bath a reminder to the part of Martin that had always been far too attuned to Jon, that the man was naked no more than a meter away from him. He had never been more aware of how much the loneliness had dampened his feelings than at that moment. He had lost track of how many times his daydreams had wandered into fantasy in the past as he watched Jon do nothing more than chew on a pen… yet right now...nothing. he knew he loved the man on the other side of the door. That was one truth that had rung true even in the depths of the forsaken, he had lost count of how many times his own mind had provided images of Jon coming undone under his attention. Yet right now… 

He listened to Jon talking through the door, all the time aware of the fog that had started gathering at the edge of his mind.

It was a relief when the sound of water disappearing down a plug pierced the vale.

"Martin?" 

Jon's hand on his shoulder broke his gaze, he had started fixating on the pattern of the stone under his left foot, the spirals and waves of masoned rock had drawn a fixation. 

He drew his attention back to Jon now. He had changed into faded checked lounge pants and an oversized faded t-shirt of some obscure band Martin hadn't heard of. A what the ghost hoodie fell over his slight frame, far too big for him but well-loved. His hair was a halo of damp greys and black around his face, Martin couldn't help but smile at how relaxed he looked. Even in death, he had looked tense… coiled like a spring about to explode. "All done?"

"Yeah, it's all free now." Jon moved his hand from Martin's shoulder and up to where his hair fell just below his ears. The impulse to pull away was strong, but he resisted allowing Jon in his space. "Get cleaned up. We may well match even more by the time you wash that hair." Jon's fingers played with a strand twisting it slightly. For the first time Martin noticed the greyish hue in places it ran through his dark auburn hair, when had that started? He couldn’t remember the last time he looked in the mirror, he had been going through the motions as each day stretched into nothing but one long endless week. He knew he hadn’t shaved in at least a month, maybe more, his hair was too long, his complexion pales even more than his ginger complexion would normally warrant, he felt almost transparent some days, part and parcel of serving the lonely he supposed.

Jon helped him to his feet before taking his place in Martins vacant spot, cross-legged and fidgeting with the zip on his hoodie. 

“I won’t go anywhere.”

  
  


The water washed away some of the smell of the sea. That salty tinge that had not quite faded even with the smell of fire and cigarettes and even the earthy smell that surrounded them on all sides. It clung to him gripping at the crevices and folds of his body. The warmth of the water helped to ease the cold grip, but Martin was fixing on Jon’s voice as it floated through the crack in the open door. He listens to Jon talk about the long winding roads of America, how the greyhound busses smelt vulgar and the strangeness of seeing people walking around with guns in the same way that people in Britain carried umbrellas. His voice dips in and out of his ears as he washes away the grime from his hair, taking care to make sure all the remnants of the last few days are well and truly washed down the drain. The muck from the tunnels, the sand from the forsaken, the feeling of being ripped apart and put back together again, all of it washed away with imperial leather and happy shopper shampoo.

Jon kept talking as Martin dries and changes into the pyjama bottoms and plain white t-shirt that he fishes from the bag that Basira had put together. Already feeling a million times better than he had in months. He chanced a look in the mirror, a tiny shaving thing that’s attached to the wall near the sink, wipes off the condensation with the side of his hand trying not to think how much it reminds him of the fog he would like to forget. He almost doesn’t recognise the man that looks back at him. 

He never expected to see himself with a beard this thick, his patience for such things had never been a long one, yet his chin was covered in a thick layer of hair fading as it grew across his top lip, he had never really managed to grow in hair across his lip, it refused stubbornly to do so. He had always been grateful for that, remembered his father having a moustache and not wanting to remind his mother more of the man she despised, small fragments of memories from another lifetime. His hair was longer than he remembered, and Jon was right, they did match. His temples were flecked with grey as was one twisting strand on either side of his face, like mist waving between the dark ginger of the rest. The lines around his eyes aged him, the dark circles now almost as prominent as Jon’s.

_ Feed you’re god or it feeds on you. _

How had that woman in the shop not ran screaming when the two of them walked in? They looked like zombies or at least members of some sort of serial killer cult. 

The thing that shook him most however was the fact that he didn’t recognise his own eyes in the mirror anymore, like Jon’s they had changed. They too had paled from their usual green to smatterings of grey almost as if they were fading away into nothing. 

Martin didn’t jump when he felt the hand on the small of his back, part of him knew Jon was already there.

“You went even quieter on me.” Jon didn't try and hide the worry in his voice. 

Martin pulled his eyes away from his reflection but couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Jon. He had changed so much in the last year and he hadn’t even noticed, he wasn’t the same inside or out, he really was becoming a monster. 

“You aren't a monster Martin.” he hadn’t spoken aloud and he hadn’t felt the power of beholding bumping around inside him, this was Jon talking and only him.

Martin rutted his face into his hands, scrubbing at his face. Emotion and feelings were breaking down the door now, they had edged at the cracks, nipped in under the space left void but now they demanded to be let in on a debt way past due. The tears were welling in his eyes, chest hurting as the air became something that had to be fought for.

He felt hands encapsulate his own, pulling them from his face where he had pressed into his own eye with such ferocity he was sure he must have fractured his eye socket with the pressure. 

A gentle tug, a pulling that he followed without question his feet following a path forged by someone else. Grief filled him, it was so powerful in its onslaught that the forsaken didn’t get a look in, it fled from him now, too much feeling a vaccine to the empty promise of the one alone. 

Jon was in his orbit. He could feel him on the outskirts of the cacophony of sounds and vision and taste. The smell of the fire and the warm press of something in his hand brought him back.

Jon.

Jon crouched in front of him, eyes fixed on Martin’s face, his own hands full of a sad-looking cup of tea, hair drying in erratic curls around his head. Jon looked up at Martin with such concern that Martin could do nothing other than reach out and twist a strand of that curling halo through his own fingers with the hand that didn’t hold the tea Jon had made him. 

“You’re staring again,” he whispered into the quiet of the cottage, he expected Jon to look away but he just nodded in agreement. “ I won’t disappear on you, I promised, didn’t I?”

Jon nodded again but continued to gaze at him. There was no power behind it.

Behind him the fire crackled away, its warmth reaching out to him even though there was no cold to chase away. The ache in his chest was at the loss, not the lonely, but it was laced with something that had been present for so long but still felt fragile and built on hope. 

Jon pressed his cheek into Martin’s outstretched hand, holding the contact for just a moment before closing his eyes and shucking to his feet. The warmth from his skin lingered as Martin turned to watch him head to the kitchen. 

He flexed his fingers registering the way the points where Jon’s face had touched tingled with possibility. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

The two of them worked in silence as they flitted around the kitchen. The surfaces had been clean, just dusty and it had taken only a short moment to get it up to scratch for making food. On the stovetop boiled a pan of water, the eggs bouncing around on the top clacking against the sides as the noodles boiled up on another hob. Martin watched as Jon chopped and shredded, occasionally stirring his projects, looking up at him intermittently as if checking he was still watching.

Martin was watching. 

He was scared that if he stopped for even a second that he might fall back into that crushing emptiness that had clawed at him in the bathroom. 

He busied himself stacking away the rest of the provisions and checking that the fridge was actually up and running correctly. With the generator being down he had half expected to find some sort of mould creature growing in it, yet it seemed Daisy had scrubbed it clean the last time she had used it. Martin just hoped it had been used for food and not some sort of monster storage unit.

The tins he stacked labels out, so that you could see them at a glance the way Jon liked it. Just one of the things that he held in the lockbox of his mind on the shelf labelled Jonathan Sims, he couldn’t even remember when he gained this knowledge but he knew it was appreciated. He folded up the brown paper bag and slid it on the shelf beside the cans, moving a stray can down from the top shelf so it was at Jon height, a gesture that earned him a smile from the man himself. Martin was thankful for it as he felt a small part of the lonely fade back from him with each curl of a lip.

The milk and dairy found its way to the fridge. Martin turned over the block of nettle cheese that the woman in the shop had kindly gifted them, peeling back the corner of the wrap to smell it.

“No picking before dinner.” Jon scalded from where he strained the eggs over the sink.

“I wasn’t I was just curious that's all, I’ve never had Nettle cheese before.” wrapping it carefully he placed it in the fridge, moving to grab two bowls from the cupboard so Jon could dish up their ramen. He ladled the noodles and the broth into the bowls and placed the diced veggies and eggs on the top. 

“Well, right now, you have the finest student food that I have the energy to make! We can have that cheese with the wine tonight?” Jon nodded over to the table handing Martin a fork with a bit of a deflated look. “ Unfortunately you will have to use actual cutlery as Daisy is devoid of that student stable, disposable chopsticks, sorry.”

“This looks amazing Jon.”

“It’s only Ramen.”

“After that egg and cress sandwich yesterday I thought I’d never want to see an egg again…”

“Well hopefully my cooking is a little better than that of a service station. It isn’t all beige for a start.” Jon was waiting for him to take the first bite before tucking into his own. It smelt amazing, he couldn’t think when the last time was he had something warm to eat. The broth smelt like chicken and steam curled up around the bowl. Jon watched him expectantly as he took his first bite.

“This is amazing Jon!” the base had a little bit of a kick to it, and Martin felt his eyes watering at the spice. Jon looked amused at this before tucking into his own. “I didn’t think you could cook.” Jon made a non-commital noise as he twisted his food on to his fork. He didn’t seem to be amused with the way the fork was wrapping up his noodles. Martin had seen Jon use chopsticks before many times in the archives over lunches ( forced or otherwise) the frustration at not using them now was getting to him, he liked to have the right tool for the job at hand. This mild frustration was charming and it was all so normal and familiar that Martin couldn’t help but smile. 

“What?” Jon asked pausing with the fork halfway to his lips.

“Just pondering how much of a break down you're going to have when you realise we don’t have any wine glasses later. You're going to have to drink it either straight from the bottle or out of a mug.” Jon glanced towards the cupboard, the colour flushed his dark skin reacting to being called out for his tendency for perfection, he realised Martin had noticed and tried to hide the flush behind his hair. “Not to mention, I have no idea if that wine we got will even go with nettle cheese?”

“Well it’s got to be better than red stripe and the bottle of Buckfast that you insisted on buying.” Jon relaxed slightly another smile settled on his face, it seemed a shame he hid it as he scooped his bowl up to make easier work of its contents.

“Hey… were in Scotland, they have traditions.”

“I'm sure that's bordering on racism Martin.”

“And I’m sure we won’t care once were a bottle of wine in, stop being a snob Jon.”

Jon feigned insult, but Martin saw straight through it. “If you don’t want to drink it it's fine, I will.”

“Did I say I wouldn’t drink it?”

“I would have thought it was below your expensive tastes, you and Basira always go for top rack in the pub.”

“Do you really think Basira would be caught dead drinking Red stripe?” Jon grinned.

“Well they obviously don’t drink wine, cause there are no flaming glasses.” he countered as he chased a slice of egg around the bowl, the laughter in his voice seemed distant but the warmth was getting closer to the surface now, he almost felt the joy in the small noise that tumbled from his lips.

They fell into a comfortable silence as they finished their food. Looking around the little cottage in the warmth of the afternoon sun, Martin tried not to fix his gaze, but it felt like if he were to stop looking Jon may turn into just another nightmare cast away into nothing. He still couldn’t convince himself that any of this was real. That this was just a normal cottage and that the world, twisted in ways they had no control over, wasn't going to come crashing through the front door demanding the rent at any second. 

He didn’t get to have this.

They didn’t get a break from life.

That wasn’t how it worked. 

Jon waited for him to finish before clearing his plate away. Silently he washed up and returned to the table where Martin still sat silently watching. Jon offered him his hand fingers outstretched as if approaching a fierce animal, tentatively Martin took it.

Jon’s hand seemed so small compared to his own splayed fingers as they wrapped together, his almost transparent skin twisting against Jon’s dark tone, yet it felt right as their palms brushed together. The warmth spread again from the one point of contact as Jon dragged him to his feet. 

“Come on, let’s get settled in.”

  
  
  
  
  


The rest of the cottage had needed less cleaning that the kitchen, the bathroom had been cleaned before they had used it earlier, the bedroom was barely big enough to house the bed ( they still hadn’t addressed that elephant in the room, although the thought of waking up with Jon wrapped around him again had wedged itself very much in the front of Martin’s mind.) and the Living area had only really needed a quick sweep over. Yet it had taken the last of the daylight to take care of the tasks. Partly because the domesticity of it all was grounding, Martin was sure that Jon was finding it as cathartic as him, and in part, because Jon refused to let Martin move out of his sight for any time longer than it took to visit the loo.

Jon built the fire now as the light faded. The small lamp next to the window cast a warm glow over the space, it seemed to be becoming more of a home than any house or flat that Martin had lived in before. Something made him feel safe and it had nothing to do with the solid brick walls ( they could crumble under the weight of choke), nothing to do with the flame that now burned in the fireplace ( that could engulf them in desolation if the god saw fit)No, it had everything to do with the person that stood now wiping his hands on the faded plaid flannel of his trousers, soot on the end of his nose and faded shirt dangling dangerously close to a naked flame.

“My Gran always said sending me to Beavers would be worth it, I never saw the point, but at least now I can see the merit in learning to make a fire.” Jon, shook out his wrists before Martin pressed the mug of wine into his unscared hand. Just as predicted he winced at the sight of the red liquid in the yellow mug. “ Although she might find the sight of me building a fire a novelty. She would turn in her grave to see me drinking red wine from a mug.”

“Yeah, but …well, it goes with the cheese!” to demonstrate the fact Martin flicked a chunk of cheese into his mouth. “Listen I know it's all gone a bit Withnail and I, but I am not letting you drink it straight from the bottle. We have standards you know.”

“Do  _ We _ now?” Jon tipped the cup to his lips, and Martin didn’t even pretend not to stare as he reached out and grabbed a slice of cheese from the plate in Martin’s hand. He began chewing on it contemplating it and could see Jon trying to work out the flavour on his tongue. Martin was just happy to see him eat, and for the second time today no less. That had to be a miracle and some sort of record.

“Not bad, Daisy’s wife has good taste.” He shrugged.

“Picked up on that did you?” the sofa sagged under his weight as he slumped into it, followed by Jon soon after. The smaller man curling in the gap beside him as close as possible without touching. Martin had always loved the way that Jon seemed to find the smallest space to make himself at home, and right now in this tiny cottage, he had managed to fold himself into the Jon shape space that had been forever vacant at his side.

“They have an...interesting relationship. Daisy was scared she was going to lose Basira all over again after the choke. She didn’t feel right when she came out of the coffin. Said being cut off from the hunt changed her.” Jon sighed sipping on his wine and helping himself to another bit of cheese. “She was trying so hard to fight it. Basira seemed just as lost, how much of the Daisy she knew was the Hunt?” Jon sighed, shifting slightly his body slumping curving closer shrinking the space between them. Martin tried not to let his mind drift to the warm sensation at the point where arms now pressed together.

They sat in silence watching the flames jump, lost in their own thoughts, brief snippets of conversation from what felt like another life floated in the air,  _ the people you think you love don’t exist. _

“What was it like?”

“What?”

“The buried.”

Jon craned his neck to look at him now. He held the gaze a moment before talking as if he were reliving a memory. “Quiet.”

“Quiet?”

“ Not like when I’m around you, you fade all the beholding noise into the background, it’s nice. I’d go as far as saying I like it.” There was that smile again, just a tiny curl of a lip, no one would know it was there unless they really knew the quirks of Jon Sims, but Martin knew them by heart now, even if he had tried to make himself forget. “In the buried, there's nothing, no sound but the earth coming to take you it pulls you in on all sides, it fills your lungs and your head and you sink. The weight of it crushing you. Not even the eye could get me in there, it was overbearingly quiet.” he shuddered and Martin had the urge to wrap an arm around him but he held back, not wanting to crowd him, not while his mind was centred so close to the crush of the buried. Jon had been fixating on something just to the left of Martin's ear, his unwavering gaze unnerving but not unwanted. He seemed to mentally shake himself, his eyes flicking to Martin before taking a long sip of his wine 

“I should say thank you.” it was almost a mumble, the sound directed into the yellow mug rather than the room at large, but the silence that seemed to wrap them now held just for the two of them, the only noise the distant sound of the settling cows and the fire popping and crackling under its own power. 

“What for?”

“The tape recorders, I … I would probably still be stuck in there now if it wasn’t for you.” the contents of the yellow mug was apparently the most fascinating thing in the world, it was still so surreal to see this side of Jon, he never showed weakness like this. But he was vulnerable, always had been. Even when he had been an utter bastard towards everyone, Martin had seen right through it all. He knew there had been a softness trapped under all the sharp angles and biting words. 

He still didn’t know what or who had pulled him to lay the tape-recorded wall of sound around the wooden box, some sort of shrine to the supernatural and in some way Jon himself. All he had known was that he couldn’t let Jon get consumed by some stupid act of self-sacrifice. Jon, who had already given so much, he had died for somebody's sake, what more could any god ask for? If chasing an impulse had been what it took to get him back, then so be it. It had been a surprise even to him how much he had dissociated from his pre lonely life, yet he had still needed to, wanted to, do something he couldn’t let Jon down, his bargain with Peter would have been for nothing if Jon had died at the hand of crush. He would have followed Jon into the buried at one point-

“-That would have just gotten us both killed.” Jon shot his gaze up to Martin again his eyes wide. “ Oh, shit - sorry Martin …I didn’t…” Martin’s hand reached out now stilling the jittering archivist before he spiralled. 

“It’s fine.” he lied.

The numbing feeling of the forsaken seemed to build up in him now, sensing that it had been violated in some way. Under his hand, Jon twisted his wrist free pulling it back where the skin seemed to burn red, before healing straight back over. “Ice burn…” he glanced back at Martin before twisting in his seat, reaching up to grab Martin’s face in his hand the cup of red wine dropped to the floor, seeping out like blood across the flagstones 

“ **Martin, stay with me** .” 

Martin was confused, he was right here… wasn’t he? Yet when he glanced down at his own hand hovering between himself and Jon it seemed so pail. Panic gripped him, and in turn, he gripped Jons wrists where they lay either side of his face, eyes locked on Jon’s, he knew he was safe, Knew with the capital K. He pushed back against the fog as Jon braced against his hold, Martin could feel the coldness of the forsaken trying to push off the Archivist trying to wrap him in its strands and force him into its own tendrils of fear. He could taste the panic waving of Jon now, it tasted good and his God wanted that more than anything, The fear of the Archivist, the fear of the eye, a feast for a king. 

Martin gripped harder on Jon's wrists as he bit down on his own fear, he couldn’t slip now. He could feel the beholding seeking out the truth, could see Jon holding him, but the Forsaken wanted him and it wanted Jon, they had escaped but Martin _ belonged _ to it, and Jon was just a matter of time. It pushed but he pushed it back, it didn’t get to have another chance, Jon wasn’t open for negotiation, not now not ever.

The air began to warm around him, the sound of the fire crackling away filled his ears, the ragged breath of Jon wrapped in with the pounding of the blood in his ears louder than any bosun's call. He found himself timing his breathing with that of Jon, under his grip he could see the red marks of the chill fading to nothing. Jon didn’t break his gaze. 

“You back?” he asked voice devoid of any compulsion, calculated and measured.

Martin nodded scared to blink in case he slipped again. He felt more in control this time, it had felt easier to navigate back to the real world. Something was telling him he might be able to find his way back now, he had a lighthouse in the storm with it’s piercing eye of light reaching through the fog. Jon held him a little longer studying his face, what for Martin wasn’t certain. 

“ I don’t think it was the tapes,” Martin muttered, resting his face in Jon's unscared hand and closing his eyes. The pull of the forsaken was just a gentle tug now, someone was keeping him here.

“No, I don’t think it was the tapes either.” Jon’s fingers were warm against his skin, he sunk into the feeling, Jon twisting his fingers through the now silver strands of hair that had sent him into the arms of the lonely mear hours ago. 

“You have to stop scaring me like this.”

Martin nodded into Jon’s grip, he tried to push down the thought that at least both their gods had gotten something out of the exchange, like some sort of fear entity buy one get one free. He was beginning to get the sinking feeling that he was no longer just a sacrifice to the Forsaken. They had walked away from the death of an avatar. Not only that but he seemed to be able to return to Jon easier each time the cold grip of the lonely grabbed at him. He tried not to think of the whistle that lay in the bottom of his bag tucked away in the bedroom.

When he opened his eyes Jon was casting a glance at the bedroom door, had the knowledge dropped into his mind? Or had Jon’s natural train of thought brought him to the same conclusion? Martin hoped for the second, but expected the first, after all, he was a servant to the eye almost as much as he was the forsaken, though the latter seemed to be fighting for the top dog spot in the eternal tug of war inside him. The eye was fighting, tooth and nail. It wanted to know something it wanted to prove a point to the incoming deity, it needed the Forsaken to know it was here first.

**“Jon, did you know you would be able to get me out of the loney?** ” he could feel the compulsion in his own voice as he spoke, Jon seemed to struggle against it before giving in, his voice didn’t sound forced, Martin wasn’t surprised at that, after all, what was one tiny bit of reverberation in an ocean of sound. 

“Elias was right, it does tickle. “ Jon shrugged it off, closing his eyes he seemed to steady himself before speaking again. “Short answer no.”

“And the long answer?” 

Jon traced the curve of his face before dropping his hand to his knee. He sidestepped the mess on the floor headed towards the kitchen, he turned to look at Martin on the threshold “If I couldn’t get you back, The lonely could have had me.”

  
  
  


\----------------

Martin watched as Jon stoked the fire humming along to the radio that they had somehow managed to tune to classic fm. Despite the fact that Jon had protested so much to the addition of Red stripe in the shopping, he seemed to be enjoying his current can as he lazed across the floor, hand swinging the poker in his grip in time with the music. Martin had no idea what the music was, and right now he didn’t care, he watched Jon drunkenly use his baton to conduct the invisible orchestra in his mind. He was on some level aware that Jon was trying to keep his attention on him, in the present and the now. Some sort of resolve had fallen over them and words were few, the threat of compulsion still too close to the surface even in general conversation. Martin was grateful, a third trip into the lap of an unseen God was not how he wanted to end the day. He was tired, his body ached. His mind now numb with alcohol seemed to finally get the message that it could relax. Martin really wanted to finally just stop and let sleep take him. However he couldn’t guarantee that the nightmares would leave him alone two nights in a row, and that alone had him fighting against the call of slumber.

Instead, he tried his hardest to stay awake. 

He tried to memorize Jon as he sat on the floor before him, the way his hair curled when it fell out of its bundled mess on the top of his head, the way the skin on his neck dipped in where Daisy had pressed a knife,(  _ Martin still couldn’t forgive that, but he would try, for Jon _ .)

The deep bags under his eyes were lesser now, had feeding on another avatar helped? Martin tried not to think about how the fear had fed him when Jon thought he was drifting earlier, had Jon done the same? Was he becoming addicted to the need to feed like Jon, like Daisy? He had yet to banish someone into the lonely but was it just a matter of time before he cast some innocent person off to save himself?

He refused to think that he was becoming anything like Peter Lukas. 

He had chosen The One Alone, had it been free will? At the time it had felt like an end, right up until it didn’t. Why had Peter tried so much to isolate him when Peter himself always seemed to be surrounded by others? Peter had ties, Peter had friends or at least other Avatars that he socialised with. The thought of Simon Fairchild was never a fun one and the relationship between Peter and Elias was more complicated that Martin cared to think about. Yet he did and had more than he would like to admit. Especially now, as Jon filled his mind with the ever-present need to be known and anchored him in the present reality. For all their flaws Elias and Peter had each other, and Martin had seen the paperwork to prove it. At first, he had assumed it was all part of Elias's master plan to fund the institute, a convenience that left him still in power by way of proxy if the man was dethroned.

Yet the longer Martin worked under Peter the more he picked up the subtle way the two of them would talk about the other, the soft inclination of a name, the dry amusement at some quirk of personality. It echoed with him, even in the depth of nothingness. How could they be like this when he wasn’t allowed to have Jon, it was petty and it was unfair but it fueled the quiet rage that had seen him through the last few months. Peter cared a great deal for Elias, that was what kept him grounded, pulled him back from feeding himself to his own god time and time again, and Elias spoke Peter's name with resolve and tone that Martin heard every time Jon let his own name slip from his lips. It had almost broken Martin, more than once.

He hated the fact that he was finding hope in such a dangerous place, but he would take it where he could. He tried not to think about the paths that had led them to this end, the lengths he would go to if asked, to make sure that the man he loved could stay with him. Even before he fell into this life of servitude, there had been little he wouldn’t have done to protect Jon. Now he had the power to do so he was scared of where it could lead without Jon to guide his way. 

So now he watched Jon, he looked to him to stop the power of his own god, his gaze lingered on the thinness of Jon’s wrists, the way he didn’t seem to fit in his own skin, Jon had never been a large man, but the descent into paranoia and then death hadn’t done much to help the cause, every movement seemed to pull skin over bone rather than muscle as it should, that ever constant urge to offer him some food still kicked in even now, to wrap him in softness and protect him from the world.

Martin watched.

Every so often Jon would stretch. It was the current act of elongation that had captured Martins attention. His eyes drawn to Jon's stomach and the thin band of skin exposed there, the curve of his hips, the perfect round scars that peppered the man's skin mesmerising in the warm glow that filled the room. Jon yawned into his stretch, he looked tired, but not the normal haggard tiered that had followed them for years, this was tiered of a man who had consumed one pint too many and could probably do with a kebab. Jon smiled as he caught Martin staring, yet Martin couldn’t seem to break the gaze even as he felt the blush creep up towards his ears. 

“What?” Jon paused mid-stretch, arms stretched out above his head, can in one hand cigarette in the other, he looked so soft with all the pointy paranoia buffered out, tipping the edge of drunk.

Martin was gripped with a simple thought that he would be happy with a lifetime of this. Jon smiling, endless cups of tea and awful alcohol, a comfort that he had never really known. Even if this love was one-sided (  _ and he was beginning to think that less and less _ ) he would wrap this moment in memory and keep it with the good ones.

“Absolutely nothing for you to be worried about.” Martin got to his feet yawning as he did so. From his slump on the floor, Jon followed him with his gaze before pulling himself to his feet. He reached over, turning off the radio and placing the now empty can on the side table and snuffing out his cigarette.

“I am incredibly tired.” Jon yawned again to emphasise his point. He looked so small as he stretched out again, Martin had been trying not to stare at the way the t-shirt hung off Jon’s shoulder blades as he moved, but now it began to play on his mind, long-dormant longing tugging. He wanted to reach out and run a finger along the pockmarked curve of Jon’s neck, to see if it felt the way he imagined under his touch. Yet that seemed like a boundary he had no right to cross, when Jon headed towards the Bedroom Martin seemed to follow in his wake, caught up in the smaller man's current without a second thought. Jon didn’t even flick on the light before he crawled up on to the bed sprawling out over one side, face down in the pillow. Martin hovered at the door unsure what to do,  _ yes they had slept next to each other on the floor last night, but this was a real actual bed and they hadn’t really-  _

-the yawn came from nowhere, loud but content, Jon’s muffled voice sounded from the pillow, one arm extended hand patting the space next to him on the bed.

“Come to bed Martin.” 

Martin froze, his heart had jumped from his chest to somewhere near his tonsils and the idea of breathing seemed like it needed a wiki on how to function. 

He must have stood there for some time because Jon made disgruntled noise as he raised his head from the pillow craning his neck to see him. 

“Are you going to stand there all night? Because you are missing out, Daisy did not skimp on the mattress. And trust me I know Georgie taught me a lot about good mattresses.” 

Was tiredness creeping up in him or had Jon really just said that? “Jon, I don’t need to--”

Jon sat up in a rush “--Shit … no not like that… her podcast … it was sponsored by them, her flat was full of them… not you know… NOT anything else…”

Even in the dark Martin could imagine how flustered Jon must look, trying to talk his way out of his own stupidity. That in itself made him cross the tiny gap and sink on to the bed, laying back into the ridiculously comfortable mattress, he wasn’t a small man but the bed would have been more than big enough for two had Jon not sprawled out across it diagonally, Martin nudged him to move over and he complied, curling himself around the pillow and burying himself in again, whether because of embarrassment or tiredness it was hard to tell.

“Well it's definitely better than the floor or the cots in the archives.” in the dim light he could just about make out the edges of Jon, so close he could just reach out and wrap him into his chest if he wanted. “I mean I'm no Mattress connoisseur, so I will have to take your word on the pedigree.” that earned him a poke in the side and a disgruntled snort from the pillow, Jon’s hand however lingered fingers splayed out across Martin's chest, something told him Jon was making sure he was still there, even if he couldn’t see him. Emboldened he took his free hand the one that wasn’t hooked under Jon’s arm and threw the comforter over them both. Jon made a content sigh as Martin tucked it around them, blocking out the chill in the air. He lay staring at the gentle shadow of Jon as his chest moved with each breath till it fell into the rhythmic pattern of sleep. It claimed Martin not long after.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad for calling out Simon. That man is 100% the most entertaining avatar, the man just wants to party.
> 
> Thanks all for the kudos!
> 
> and to the people who comment ... well after the Eyepocolypse, you will be spared the wrath of Elias, and maaaaaaybe Jon.   
> ( also the fact that Google didn't try to spell check Eyepocolypse amuses me )
> 
> you know the drill, comments feed me in my tiny cave
> 
> if you want to stalk me on Tumbler its the same name I'm not very original
> 
> till next time on the good cows saga.  
> xxx grumps


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry ... not sorry

The shelves of the archives are dusty, stacked high, lazy sunlight creeping through slits of windows that gaze down from street level as busy feet rush by the basement windows. The place is cold in winter, too warm in summer and there is something altogether unnerving about the way the sound carries, it echoes on old stone floors, reverberates around the low metal lamps and screeches around the old wooden bookshelves long past fit for purpose. Stacks of old filing crowds the aisle forgotten projects and hastily hidden investigations shoved in between manila files and storage boxes. Martin wandered the stacks, searching for something but unsure of what, he knew whatever it was would just be up ahead, just around the next bend in the labyrinth of statements and haphazardly stacked artifacts. 

He rushed forward eager to find whatever it was he was searching for, he wished he could remember, Jon would be mad at him, just another thing for him to add to his never ending pile, pausing he could hear the gentle humming of a tape recorder. It hissed and spat, dragging its wrapping tendrils across the heads of the speaker, the crackling distortion making the hair on the back of his neck prick and fizz in response. He ducked his head trying to see where the sound came from , it sounded as if it was only one stack over he should be able to see it if he moved one ream of paper to the side, maybe if he could sit and listen to Jon he would help him to remember he was looking for in this endless maze. He pushed the box aside to reveal… more boxes? That wasn’t right there should be a clear line of sight between the shelves not more boxes and he could hear the tape recorder as clear as day, it was just ahead of him day just on the other side of the filing he was sure of it.

He stood on his tiptoes pushing the boxes the next shelf up out of the way, only to reveal a brick wall where there should have been nothing. Confusion gripped him, none of the shelving units backed onto walls, the bricks got cold, the damp got in and documents got damaged. They had a big poster on the wall in the break room that told them all as much, not that anyone took any notice of the instruction posters dotted about the archives. Tim had gone as far as to draw a novelty pair of glasses on to the man who grinned down on them reminding them to bend from the knees and not stack the filing in the middle of the floor. Like most of the rules in the Institute they seemed not to apply to the archival staff, but moving a shelf so it was against a wall? That seemed very out of Tim’s style, even if it was a joke, too much physical labour for one thing. Tentatively Martin turned, Moving the box on the shelf behind him experimentally. Again wall, that wasn’t physically possible. How could there be walls on either side of him this close together, the stacks were twelve across, and the ceiling was so high he would be able to see the top of the wall above the shelves. 

The sound of the tapes now echoed around him coming from all sides, he rushed to the end of the aisle, trying not to trip over his own feet. The last time he ran through these archives like this was to escape the torrent of silver worms that had fallen from the walls, it still sat fresh in his memory the co2 thick in the air and the constant itching that never left below the surface of his skin. 

He picked up the pace, he wasn’t sure what it was he was trying to run from, but the co2 from the worm attack was now creeping towards him...no it wasn’t co2 it was something worse, a carpet of fog hovering inches above the archive floor inching ever closer he turned a blind corner and ran as fast ashe could it was only moments before he ran into a dead end. He half expected to see a familiar yellow door sitting there like an open grin plastered on the solid wall of the archives. Helen or Micheal he didn’t care either was better than the forsaken, it wanted to call in the debt owed, it had a place for him, the newest and brightest of all of its children and it would welcome him with open arms should he let it. He scrambled his hands across the cold brick trying to find a foot hold or hand hold that could help him reach up and maybe escape through the narrow windows but his hands found no stone work , all that met him was a wall of fog that his hand passed through. As he spun on the spot and the archives began to fade around him. The screeching static of the tape grew around him, he craned his ears to find the source of the sound, wherever it was coming from Jon was sure to be, he would know what to do, how to get out of here. The fog crept along the bookshelves twisting between the filing boxes tumbling over the forgotten case files of his long dead friends searching, creeping ever closer as Martin stumbled blindly trying to follow the hiss and spit of the recorder, feeling his way along a counter that had not been there a moment before. Jon. he had to find Jon, he would know what was happening he would find a way to make the Fog leave him alone, but he couldn’t go empty handed he needed something… what was it? What had he wandered into the archives for? What did he need to bring Jon? Why was the fog trying to take him now? Could it not see he was busy? He had things to do, he didn’t have time to play silly games. His hand brushed across something plastic. Tea. that was what he came here for, tea. The kettle whistled loud and piercing in the fog--

“-- that fucking whistle!” 

He blinked in to the semi darkness, Jon was on his hands and knees near the door, the content of Martin’s bag scattered around him and the high pitched screaming of the bosun whistle that Peter Lukas had wore around his neck piercing the air. Martin could see the fog pressing up against the windows of the cottage trying to push its way past the window pains, fighting to find its way in through the cracks. He moved swiftly, getting to his feet faster than he thought possible, he didn’t know why but Jon couldn’t touch the whistle, he wasn’t sure what would happen but he knew it would end badly. He grabbed Jon just as his hand went out to grab it, it’s shrill noise cutting through the air, he pulled him into his chest almost winding himself in the process. 

“We don’t touch the curse objects of other god’s, Jon,” Martin snapped reaching out grabbing the whistle, as soon as his fingers touched the brass the sound stopped. 

All sound stopped. 

The forsaken closed ranks around them. It had been called and there was an offering to be had, Martin prepared for the now familiar crash of waves and the bite of sea salt on the air. It never came. The fog shifted, the sound of the familiar waves replaced with a low electrical buzz, indistinct shapes just out of sight loomed in the darkness. His eyes adjusted falling on the familiar shelving of the archives as his dream became real around him. His dream had followed him here letting the Forsaken find them, and it wanted Jon, It wasn’t here for him, he knew that. 

He tightened his grip around Jon’s chest as he pulled him in to his own, boney elbows and sharp angles prodded and poked but Martin paid them no mind as he glowered into the steel grey cold that swam around him, something deep in him growled and bared its teeth. 

“There isn’t anything here for you. Leave.” 

The whistle vibrated in his hand, ice cold to the touch, suddenly aware that it was protecting them from whatever lurked just out of sight. He gripped it till his fingers hurt, but he embraced Jon harder, scared that if he let go for one second he would lose him forever in the stacks.

“I said leave.” he snarled into the nothing. 

He waited. 

Silence.

Then ,Nothing spoke, in as much as nothing could speak.

Martin knew the way it felt, the way the eye imparted information, the sudden knowledge dumped upon you. This was different, it was creeping doubt that had always been there, you just hadn’t looked at it directly before. 

_ He is ours Martin Blackwood and you owe us your archive. We are patient we will wait, the Watcher owes us a debt and we will collect what is ours. _

Martin tightened his grip on Jon, he must be leaving a bruise now where he held on firm around Jon’s ribcage. He couldn’t lose Jon now, not like this, he couldn’t lose him in a forsaken that was created around his own fear. It was anger now, he didn’t fear this god he served, and if he didn’t fear it, it couldn’t take him. 

“He isn’t yours . He doesn't belong to you and I don't owe you a damn thing!”

The whistle vibrated in his hand violently now, trying to shake free of his grip as The One Alone tried to pull him back into its control. He chanced a look down at Jon, he was bracing for a fight, although what either of them could do to face down something that had no physical presence was at a loss to him. Jon trembled, was it cold or fear? The wisps of fog coming from his mouth now were not a good indication, Jon was not built for the hold of the forsaken, his breath leaving markers where Martins didn’t even register. They had to get out of here and soon.

The whistle started to burn red hot in his hand, the heat must have been radiating in to the air around them because Jon snapped his eyes to it.

“Martin… the whistle,  **blow the whistle** !”

Martin felt the compulsion behind it and his hand moving of it’s own free will, the brass burned his lips as he blew. One short piercing note cut sharp into the night. 

  
  
  


The heat was unbearable, he dropped the whistle from his lips, but Jon stuck out a nimble hand catching it before it hit the floor. 

“How did you-”

“Statement of Carlita Sloane, she served on the Tundra.” 

Martin needed no more explanation.

The fog receded and the stone walls of Daisy's cottage came back into view,the facsimile of the archives fading from existence. Around them the world seemed to be shaking. But as Martin came back to his senses he released the shudder was running through both himself and Jon, who he still held enclosed in his arms.

Jon’s back pressed tight into Martin’s chest, he could feel his heart thumping under his hand where he held him in a death grip, that had been too close, if he had been a few moments later…

“Martin… you might need to let go…” Jon gasped as Martin pulled him tighter “You have me at a compromise.” 

Suddenly the knowledge of Jon’s own encounter with the bone turner was present in Martin’s mind, he quickly released his grip moving his arm from Jons ribs and taking him by the arm. They both swayed back towards the bed, he felt exhausted but at the same time more alive than he had in a long time. At what point had fight or flight lost the part that encompassed the flight? He felt solid. The fog had left him now, though he knew if he needed it he would be able to call it to him without a second thought. Had he given in to the thing he tried to escape?

Martin reached out flicking on the light and glancing out the window as he did so, he kept Jon’s wrist tight in his hand, his own protection against the onslaught of a god he did not choose. The night sky was clear outside, dotted with tiny stars that watched them from their orbit. There was no sign of fog, esoteric or otherwise. 

Jon’s face was unreadable when Martin braved a look at him, his pupils blown wide as he watched Martin settle back onto the bed. 

The two of them seemed not to be able to find words. If there had been any doubt that Martin was an avatar to the lonely it had been cast away, bashed across the rocks never to surface again. Martin could feel that strange prickling energy he had felt that afternoon crossing over his skin, it was delicious and he hated that he craved it. Was this how Jon felt when he fed off the statements? He felt awake, he felt alive and he felt scared, but not for the reasons he should be, the Lonely didn’t scare him anymore, he could control it. But it had come for Jon and it had been too close for comfort. The forsaken had called when he had his guard down, he should have known that even in slumber he would not be able to escape its hold. 

The anger was building up again, but the anger told him he was alive, even if he had slowly turned into a monster to stay that way. He felt that creeping sensation on his skin again but the dying grips of the beholding told him it was safe. The One Alone had gone now, he knew it had been chased back by whatever power that whistle held upon it. Martin was tempted to destroy it, but the memory of the not-sasha was still raw. It was raw and it hurt. Jon reached out, dropping the whistle into his hand as if he wanted to never touch the thing again. He probably didn’t and Martin didn’t blame him, when had anything that belonged in artifact storage ever worked out well for them? The whistle was cool to the touch now , just a normal whistle unless you knew otherwise, Martin turned it in his hand, suddenly thankful that at least in death Peter had been useful. 

  
  


A short sharp laugh made him look up, he half expected to see some ebodyment of his god sitting cross legged before him on the bed, but it was just Jon, his lips set in what looked like an awed smile. There was a strange look on his face as if he had just witnessed something awe inspiring and was struggling to find the words to describe it.

“Did you just tell a fear entity to fuck off?” he tipped his head to the side his hair falling loose over his shoulder where the shirt hung off his collar, pulled and tugged and stretched as Martin had held him close, it dawned on him then, Jon had never seen that side of him. He had been so careful to hide that part of himself away, to lock down that anger as he tried to prove himself to Jon, to the others. 

“Sort of?” he offered, watching as the awe turned to curiosity. Jon shuffled closer on the bed, closing his scarred hand over the one that Martin now held the whistle in. 

The heat that radiated across his hand had nothing to do with the brass and everything to do with the fingers that pressed across the back of his own.

The fog had left him and in it’s retreat it had taken all the numbness that had lingered in the fibers of Martin’s being. All the feelings that he had compressed and compartmentalised away when drifting towards the Lonely came rushing back now, all that longing that he had suppressed for years clawing its way to the surface. Martin was suddenly acutely aware of Jon. Jon who had fit into that space between his arms so well, like he'd always belonged. The fact that Martin’s could wrap him up so easily, protect him from harm, the feel of his heart beating so close to his own, his own imagination could never compare to the feeling of the real thing held close to his chest. 

Elias had said he would do anything to protect Jon, had he expected Martin to face down an actual god?

Jon tightened his grip on Martin’s leg, pulling himself closer till their shins pressed together and the gap between them was less than a hair's breadth, Jon seemed to steady his breathing looking down to where their hands met before he spoke, rubbing his thumb against the burn mark that was beginning to raise painfully against Martin’s pale skin where the whistle had burned white hot. Each pass of the skin against skin sent a pulse straight to his heart. 

“Who do I belong to then?” Jon’s voice was soft, the question was for him, nobody else. “Before when...when whatever that was demanded you give me up… you said-”

“-We'll obviously, you belong to you. ” Martin blurted, trying not to panic,  _ me Jon, you belong to me. _

That wasn’t the right answer, he knew it as soon as the words left his lips, Jon was looking for more, some sort of clarity. His eyes dropped to Martins chest and his entire body sagged, he muttered something to himself that sounded like ‘past tense’ but Martin couldn’t be sure. After months of feeling nothing, that drop in Jon’s shoulders pulled heavy on Martin’s heart. Feelings that had tried so hard to bury fighting back against the numbness he had been cultivating. To think that he could make Jon look so broken, so fragile when he wanted nothing more than to grab him, to hold him and comfort him. Jon, who’s hand currently wrapped around his own. Jon who had somehow always managed to come back to him. Jon who had believed him and offered him sanctuary, time and time again. Jon, who found his way back to him even in death. 

_ Think of it as giving a statement... _ some voice in his mind provided. 

“Everyone keeps calling you My archivist…” Jon looked up at him then, his eyes always looked so hard and set and focused, to suddenly have that focused on you in such a close quarter was overwhelming. It was an intensity that burned, like every part of your soul was being put out for examination, turned over and inspected for fine cracks and chips that might break under the pressure. Right now he was broken and fractured and crumbling at the edges, though all the parts were there they were a little worn. But he was strong, stronger than he had felt in a long time and he had just back talked one of the fourteen dread powers, right now the last thing he felt was scared. “...and that’s just it isn’t it, that's how you got me out of the Lonely, how you managed to find me , time and time again. You have to know that right?”

Jon’s brow furrowed, but his eyes didn’t falter from their gaze. He didn’t speak as he moved his hand to cradle the side of Martin’s face his expression full of questions that Martin didn’t give him a chance to ask.

“Because you are in a way, not the ARCHIVIST ,you’re just Jon. But your My Jon… and I don’t know when it happened or why it happened, but it’s not like I’ve been very good at hiding it.” The words pored out of him now, the damn was open, “I’ve loved you for so bloody long, ‘course some stupid fear god is going to try and use that against me, why wouldn’t they? Everyone else has had a go, even Tim. Tim who couldn’t understand why I would even want to give you the time of day. Why I let you send me off on pointless research that only brought trauma to the archives, why I trusted you even though everything pointed to you being a murderer. That's me isn’t it all over, too soft too much of a pushover, nobody ever thinks I might know my own mind, be able to make my own decisions. But I do, and I can, and I will choose you every time Jon, so in a way they aren’t wrong are they? You are my Archivist, but you were my Jon first, and they have to fight me for you because I’m not sitting back and letting you get yourself killed again ” He was getting angry now, he could feel it building, “even if you don’t feel the same well that’s your choice, but at least it's a choice. They do not get to take away the only thing I have in this world that I actually care about. Not again.”

“Martin…” Jon tried to speak rocking himself closer to Martin, who shook his head violently

“No, don’t tell me to stop being stupid, it’s my choice Jon-”

“-Martin will you please-”

“-and i’m sick of people telling me that it’s-”

“-Martin! Will you shut up for one moment, I'm trying to tell you-”

“-a stupid choice, that I can-”

“MARTIN!” Jon cut him off with a yell,untucking his legs from below him and pulling himself up to meet his eye level, a hungry look in his eyes. 

Martin stopped speaking immediately as Jon pressed a hand over his mouth.

“Can I speak now?” Jon sighed, running his free hand along Martin’s cheek, the taller man nodded in to the gesture, registering the warmth of the skin against his face. Breathing heavily into Jon’s palm he braced himself for rejection, this was it, he had laid his heart out for Jon to stamp on in his high from feeding the lonely and now he was to be cast away. Jon shifted, kneeling up into Martin’s space the size difference was evident, Jon was straining to hold his balance and restrict Martin from talking, he pressed his fingers in his palm warming against Martin’s lips as the larger man steadied his breath. He could feel the heat growing in his chest, his cheeks, flushing at his ears. Jon must think he was an idiot, to fluster even now, he tried not to look him in the eye, but Jon was searching leaning ever closer to his face, eventually Jon spoke, his voice the softest Martin had ever heard it.

“You’re warm again,” he smiled. “I missed it.”

When Martin didn't respond Jon moved his hand away from Martin’s mouth, moving to cup either side of Martin’s face, burying his fingers in the depths of his beard, a level of intimacy that Martin had never felt in so long it was but a distant echo of a memory . The action triggered something deep in Martin, caused him to move his hand to the smaller man's waist, muscle memory from a time long ago, the hand still holding tightly to the whistle released it into he folds of the tartan throw in favour of winding fingers into the twist of hair that hung over Jon’s slender shoulders. If this was the remedy to his own cursed god then he would drink it in, he would archive every inch of Jon, scars and all, after all it was his job.

The fear he felt now had nothing to do with some eldritch being and everything to do with the fact that Jon was currently breathing in and out , heart beating , warm and very much alive and currently straddling him in a remote cottage in scotland. Out of everything that they had been through together this might just be the thing that finished him off.

Jon pressed their foreheads together now. Martin wished he wouldn’t close his eyes, up close they were breathtaking in their intensity, browns and green all fighting against two pitch black pupils that seemed to dance with starlight itself. He had written poetry about them before, it pales in comparison to the words that he could muster now, now he had seen them so close and so open. 

“Jon…” Martin began but Jon cut him short.

“Don’t… please just … let me speak? I… I’m getting … I’m not good at…” Jon shifted under the gentle pressure of Martin’s touch. A soft hand guiding him closer pulling him on to a knee. Jon did fit so perfectly into that space, it was like it was made for him as he slipped closer into the curve of Martin’s stomach pressing against him and into the safe sanctuary he offered up with open arms and always had ,if Jon had just opened his eyes. 

“When I…” he steadied himself. “ When I came out of my coma, all I wanted…”

“Jon?”

“I… I just wanted to see you.” his eyes cracked open, as if to underline his point. “When I… when I was kidnapped, or when I was on the other side of the world… I...” Jon looked away, his eyes lifting towards the ceiling, looking but not seeing. Martin began rubbing the small of his back tracing the way his spine fell too close to the surface, the way his heart seemed to echo around his chest as it beat out a rhythm just a little too fast. “When I saw your face on the calls home, it made it seem so much easier to keep going, knowing you would be there when I got back, it took me longer than it should have to realise what it was I was feeling, I'm not good at people,feelings...” 

Martin’s own heart was pounding now, he remembered the half smiles, the face time calls where Jon had forgotten the time difference, the bed head and the sleepy worry that came with being woken at three am. There had been a reluctance whenever Jon had ended the call, as if he didn’t want to go, as if he had words left unspoken on the tip of his tongue. 

“I should have told you before we went rushing off to the wax museum, but I was scared I was reading too much into things, it could have just been the office gossip, I was never good at people, not like you. Then I … I listened to the tapes, the ones I asked you to record...I’m” Jon’s voice hitched slightly as he tried to steady his words. “ I’m sorry I wasn’t ok. I'm sorry… I died. That I left you.”

Martin wiped away the tear that had fallen on Jon's cheek. Why did breathing seem hard? Why did his chest feel like his heart was going to explode with the sudden racing it was doing ? 

“I don’t think I will ever understand how you can love me the way you do,” Jon’s fingers ran against his jaw, it was as if he were memorising the shape of his face under the pads of each one, “ but you do and I don’t deserve you, something I vastly underestimated until I thought I had lost you for good. Till you left but were still here, were gone but always around me. Until I wasn’t able to Love you back.” 

The space between them diminished as Martin Pulled Jon into him, suddenly everything else was irrelevant, all that mattered was closing the distance, as small as it was, between them. Jon’s hands moved from his face twisting into his curls, his fingers curling to tip Martins head towards his own, close enough that he could taste the wine on his breath as Jon’s mixed with his own. 

“Jon?”

“Martin?”

He didn’t wait for his mind to provide the question, the last few inches closed as his lips pressed in to Jon’s, it was hard and wanting and Jon kissed him back with just as much force, pulling him in greadely to a kiss that had been long overdue. Whenever Martin had imagined this moment in the past he had always pictured Jon holding back,that was if he would kiss at all. For all Martin had known that might have been out of Jon’s comfort zone, it wasn’t as if it had come up in direct conversation with the man himself.

Yet, Jon was not holding back, pressing into the kiss, hands mapping out the curves of Martin as he yielded to Jon’s every move. Martin replied in kind, his hands rucking up the hem of Jon’s shirt so he could feed from the warmth that emanated from the man’s skin, chasing the last of his god’s fear from his heart as he did so. The stale taste of the forsaken was soon replaced by the taste of Jon’s mouth as he let him in, deepening the kiss. The feel of Jon’s hands on Martin’s own exposed skin sending the last of the lonelys hold in to remission wherever he touched. Scarred fingers leaving their own mark that no god could touch. Jon pushed him back into the bed, pinning him down as he began kissing his way along his jaw till he got to Martin’s ear. “Did I miss my chance?”

“For what?”

“To love you?” 

Tipping his head Martin caught Jon’s line of sight, the look of worry creeping across his face disappeared as soon as they locked eyes, “How can someone who is so intelegent be so bloody stupid?”

“Years of practice?” Jon shrugged, making to pull away from the embrace, Martin pulled him back unable to hide the giddy happiness that was building inside him. 

“And where do you think you're going?” 

“I just…”

“I just what? Do you think that I don’t want you? After all this? No you haven’t missed your chance you big goof, now will you just…” Jon cut him off, leaning in to catch his lips, wrapping him close wherever he could find purchase, Martin was happy to let him take the lead, Jon’s hair cutting them away from the rest of the world where it hung down around them. Martin’s hands wrapped in the curls, Jon’s long neck pliant under his hands, he had been right the scars were rough against his fingers. Ugly to some but  _ I love you _ written in a million braille formations under Martins touch, Jon who had given and given and been scared to take. Jon whose lips were chapped, whose skin was a map of terror that he bore to protect the ones that meant the most to him. Each caress of his pock scattered skin a testament to a man who many called a monster, but who Martin had loved since before either of them had been a shadow of the Monsters that they had become. Martin sighed Jon’s name as they broke apart, his name a prayer on his lips, but not to any god that they knew or served, a requiem to the man who finally rested in his arms where he had always belonged. Jon’s heart was beating close to his own where he wrapped himself in to Martin’s side, lips bruised and eyes fluttering closed as he sunk in. Martin reached out catching the throw and pulling it back over them, his hand tracing patterns into Jon’s side as he held him close, sleep was calling, even if his heart seemed to be fit to burst, it was almost five am , and it had been an increasingly eventful night, yet somehow Martin no longer feared falling asleep. With Jon in his arms the Lonely had no chance of touching him. Jon nuzzled into his neck, his breath slowing as sleep called to him. Martin stilled his hand as sleep began to take hold, his fingers falling into the space that should house two very prominent ribs. “Jon?”

“Mhu?” 

“I love you, but why two ribs?”

“Anchor… statement.” the answer came muffled against his collar as Jon, drifted towards sleep.

“Statement?”

“W’snt worth a rib.”

“Anchor?” 

“N’t worth that either…” Jon placed a gentle kiss on his neck as he yawned. “You were better…” 

Martin kissed him gently on the head where his hair mingled in with his own. 

“Go to sleep,”Jon muttered something about not letting things go already, Martin could feel the smile even as the arms of morpheus came to take him. “We can talk about it in the morning.” he muttered as he succumbed to the gentle caress of Jon’s hand against his chest and the siren song of sleep.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasnt 100% happy with this but it needed away from me. 
> 
> You bet your worm I like writing angry marto. Hes the best marto. Plus I really wanted him to tell the lonley to fuck off so here we are. 
> 
> Kudos are good but comments make me write faster. I think I've got one more chapter before I'm out of cliches...   
> That and season 5 drops and were really in the deep end ...


End file.
